Lex Talionis
by maxwellandlovelace
Summary: Being locked up for almost a third of your life changes you. Your routine changes, the people around you change, your mind changes. But one person has always remained constant in my mind. And now he's back.
1. Aut neca aut necare

**Author's note:** I've been working on this for quite some time now. The first chapters were posted for Prompts in Panem 2016. This story is darker than anything I've ever written and I urge you to take note of the trigger warnings.

Contains sex and violence.

This story contains direct and revised quotes from The Hunger Games books and films. I own neither.

Trigger warnings: non-consensual sex, mention of abuse, mention of abortion.

Caryn! Thank you for being so wonderful and supportive. Without you, I don't know if this story would see the light of day.

* * *

It's a brown and orange sticky mess, and I wonder if it's even legal to call it food. Then again, the law doesn't apply here—we're all criminals. It doesn't matter if you're actually guilty of the crime you're convicted of because, as soon as you're on the other side of the fence, you're a felon in everyone's eyes. They could feed us dog food and no one would care.

If you close your eyes, you can almost imagine this being a cafeteria bustling with people. But it's a difficult task—since we're only allowed plastic trays and cutlery, the sound isn't the same. Not to mention the stench. I try to block out the odor by imagining the sweet smell of a freshly baked cinnamon… No, I can't go there. That was another time, another life. I've made a new one here. Besides, I can't show any signs of weakness.

I push the tray in front of me and stand up, heading for the exit.

"Everdeen!" a familiar voice barks behind me. I stop and turn around to look at Cato, one of the guards. His smile is smug, his stance wide, and he's holding his belt with both of his hands, trying to look intimidating. Like he's trying to make up for that tiny dick of his. "You know where the tray goes," he says, giving me a stern look.

"Apparently, so do you. Why don't you put it there?" I challenge, not breaking eye contact.

"I'm not your servant, Everdeen! Now take your fucking tray and put it where it belongs." He's losing his patience. Good. It gives me an opportunity to make a statement.

I walk back to the table, pick up the tray and walk to him slowly, dropping the tray on his feet. "Go fuck yourself," I say and saunter away, not bothering looking back. I know exactly what's in store for me after this, but it's worth it. I have to assert my authority here. I've worked my ass off for almost eight years to build myself a reputation—sucking dicks, licking pussies, taking beatings, etc. And a prick like Cato will not take it away. The people in here are like wolves—they can smell fear. And the moment you show any type of weakness they will rip you to pieces. _Kill or be killed._

On my way back to my cell I pass a couple of guards sneering at me. I just glare back. _Pieces of shit._ To be able to climb to the top of the food chain, whether you like it or not, you'll have to suck _a lot of_ dicks. The new ones usually settle for a handjob, but once you've given them an inch, they want a mile.

I've never liked my cellmate. I can't put my finger on what it is, but she gives me a bad vibe. Rumors say she's an axe murderer, but I don't know how much of that is true. I find it hard to believe that she would end up in a medium security prison if that was the case. She doesn't like me either, but at least she's not sucking up to me, which I can respect. We have a mutual understanding—I don't mess with her, and she doesn't mess with me.

She's reading a book from the prison library as I walk in. "Heard you told Cato to go fuck himself," she says without lifting her gaze. "You know that's going to cost you."

"Yeah, it's nothing I haven't done before. Where did you hear that anyway?"

"You know I won't tell you that. You've got your ways to stay on top, I've got mine."

That's the longest conversation we've had in a week, so I leave it at that.

* * *

I should be used to the blaring horn at night, but I still jerk at the sound.

"Twenty minutes before lights-out!" a robotic voice shouts through the speaker. I drag my tongue across my front teeth, feeling their ragged surface. I grab my bag with toiletries and walk toward the communal bathroom. I'm not surprised when I meet Cato in the hallway on the way back.

"I think you have problem with authority, inmate," he says, pointing his baton at me.

"I don't. Because you don't _have_ any authority over me." I try to keep a condescending tone—fear or weakness will get me nowhere.

Cato approaches me with long strides and grabs the collar of my shirt, pulling my face toward his. "We'll see about that," he hisses in my ear, roughly shoving me into a nearby closet—a closet I'm more familiar with than I would care to admit. As soon as he's closed the door, he grabs my left hand, cuffs it, and locks it above my head on one of the metal shelves. I close my eyes and hear the familiar sound of pants unzipping. Pulling out a knife, he presses it to my throat. Guards aren't allowed to carry knives, but I guess he's found a way to smuggle one in. It's not that difficult.

"Grab it," he growls into my ear. I take his dick in my hand and start stroking it, making sure to squeeze the head the way I know he likes. He's already hard, and I hope I can finish him off as soon as possible, so I speed up the motion with my hand. "Not so fast, Katniss." There's a hiss at the last syllable, and I cringe at the sound. I prefer if they don't use my first name—it makes it too personal. "Do you think a simple handjob is gonna make up for that stunt you pulled?"

He puts both hands on the waistband of my pants and pulls them down along with my panties, leaving me completely naked from the waist down.

"What's the matter, inmate? Don't know where to put it?" he mocks. I stay silent, not wanting to give in. "I think you do. It's not our first time," he groans in my ear, his breath on my skin disgusting me. "Why don't you put it there?" he taunts, mimicking my words from earlier. I could refuse to do it, but he's got the upper hand, and I know there's no way of escaping. So I might as well get it over with.

Reluctantly, I bring his cock to my pussy, and when he pushes it in I try not to show the pain that he's causing. He can feel that I'm not wet enough for this not to hurt, but I think the fucker thrives on that.

Instead of fighting it, I put my head against the wall and try to imagine someone else. Someone who never would have been this rough without my permission. I remember him moving above me, inside me, showing me what real pleasure was. How his gentle touch always made a warm, fuzzy feeling spread throughout my body. _No_. I won't go there.

"That's right. Right there," Cato pants, breaking me from my thoughts. For a second it didn't hurt, but with his words the pain comes back full force. He seems to be close, pushing into me faster and faster. He puts one of his hands on my breast, squeezing it hard, and this time I can't hold back a cry. I curse myself for letting him know much this hurts. I can't be weak—not in here. But he seems to be too wrapped up in his own pleasure to notice. He's pressing himself into me with such roughness that my back is starting to hurt too. I'm relieved when I feel his grunting get louder, and I finally feel his semen filling me and then seeping out as he pulls out.

He tucks himself back into his pants, staring at my naked legs the entire time. "You little cunt. Don't you think you can give me that crap again. _I_ rule this place, not you. Or we will find ourselves in this closet again. And next time, I won't be so gentle."

It's not the first time I've heard it, and it won't be the last. He looks me up and down. My pants are still at my ankles, and my hand is above my head. It's degrading, standing like this, completely at Cato's disposal, but giving him blowjobs and the occasional fuck is worth it. No inmate here dares to cross me, and the fishes are terrified of me. Exactly the way I want it. I guess my murder-conviction doesn't hurt either. Well, technically it's not a murder-conviction, but that's what everyone thinks. It works to my advantage so I don't bother clearing up that misunderstanding.

"I would love to just leave you here, like this. But I need the handcuffs." He unceremoniously unlocks the handcuffs and leaves without another word. Good. I have to wash his fucking cum off me.

There is no risk of pregnancy. Not anymore. After a year here it was discovered that I was pregnant. I have no idea who the father was—it could have been anyone of a handful of guards, but it was obvious to the warden what had happened. Not wanting to cause a scandal, I was forced to have an abortion. But it was done off the record and in silence, so it was sloppy and apparently damaged me so much that I will never be able to bear children. Not that I was planning to, considering I'm gonna be locked up for a long time. But I would have liked to have had the fucking choice.

And as for STDs—there's really nothing I can do but hope for the best. So far, nothing has come up during my medical exams. Most of the guards put on condoms, claiming that I'm too filthy to stick it in me without some sort of barrier. Not too filthy to fuck, though, apparently.

I hurry my way back to the bathroom to wash myself off quickly before lights out.

"That was a long pee." I don't miss the mockery in her voice.

"Shut up, Mason," I glare at her.

As soon as the officers have counted everyone, the cell doors close, and I immediately dive under the covers of my bunk. This is the only time I allow myself to—at least partly—let my guard down. No one can see or hear me here, so I can let my mind wander. I let it wander to a time before I came here, where—at least for a short time—I was happy.

I've developed a technique to keep the nightmares in check—at least sort of. I can't wake up screaming in the middle of the night. That would indicate vulnerability. I don't want Cato or anyone—or any _thing—_ else in here invading my dreams, so before I fall asleep I force myself to think of something completely different, hoping that it will transfer into my dreams. It usually works, but sometimes I've woken up covered in cold sweat from night terrors. Fortunately no one has noticed—as far as I can tell.

It works this time. Instead of moldy bathrooms, flaking paint, and plastic trays, I dream of _him_.

 _I trace the edge of the swell of his left cheek, just below his eye._

" _What was it?" I don't have to ask why or how it happened—I already know who to blame, and as for the reason, it's anyone's guess. When I reach a sensitive spot of his bruise, he flinches away in pain._

" _A wooden spoon," he says, looking to the floor._

 _He thinks this is his fault. I guess you can only hear how worthless and unwanted you are so many times before you start to believe it._

" _I have to clean this. Otherwise it'll get infected."_

" _Okay," he croaks. I put my hands of both sides of his face, careful not to hurt him, and push his hair back, dragging my fingers through his soft, blond locks. He closes his eyes and seems to enjoy this moment. It feels surprisingly intimate._

 _I could tell him that none of this is his fault and that everything will be okay, but I know he won't believe me. Besides, I love him too much to offer him meaningless platitudes._

 _I swing my leg over his lap and straddle him, giving him a light kiss on the mouth. He slides his hands over the outsides of my thighs, letting them rest by my waist for a minute before gliding underneath my shirt. He groans when he palms my breasts, and I moan when he swipes his thumbs across my already puckered nipples._

 _I reach down between us and start unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. He's already hard when I start stroking him through the fabric of his underwear. He keeps one of his hands on my breast while the other snakes under my skirt and starts rubbing me through my panties. For being so strong, his fingers can be surprisingly delicate. But I need more. So I reach underneath the waistband of his boxers and bring his cock out of its confinement. At this, he pushes my underwear to the side, sliding his fingers through my folds._

" _Oh, my..." I pant. He removes his hand and I instinctively scoot closer to him, dragging the tip of his erection from my entrance up to my clit, coating him in my juices._

" _That's—" he gasps. "It feels incredible. You're incredible."_

 _I put his cock at my entrance, and he pushes in without hesitation. It feels so good, the way he fills me up completely. It's the safest I've ever felt. He moves both of his hands, letting them linger by my waist, holding me in a firm grip._

 _He moans when I start moving my hips, but I let him set the pace with his hands. He needs this. He needs to be in control. He needs to know that somebody's always by his side, so I follow his motions, and it's not long before he starts thrusting into me, sending a wave of pleasure through me, and I know I'm close._

 _He's twitching inside me, and I know he's close too. I almost think he's gonna finish first, but when he moves his hand to where we're connected and start teasing my clit, it's my undoing. He keeps the same fast pace throughout my entire orgasm as he rubs me. A couple of more thrusts, and then he's coming too. His movements become more wild as he spills inside me._

 _After we've both come down from our highs, I move to stand up._

" _Stay."_

 _The look of pure innocence on his face melts my heart, and I know I can never deny him anything._

" _Always."_

I'm awakened by the horn, signaling it's 6:30 a.m. We have fifteen minutes to come down to the dining hall, and then it's time for work. _Work_. They say it's a way of getting inmates assimilated to the real world when they get out. But really, it's just a way to get cheap labor. We're paid about a dollar an hour to use at the prison commissary.

My assignment is the laundry room, where we wash the bed sheets and the inmates' clothes. It's a fairly easy job, and it's an upgrade compared to my first one, cleaning the toilets. I had to suck the warden's dick twice to get transferred. It was worth it.

You stand and fold the laundry as it comes out of the dryer. It's kind of therapeutic, actually. I don't have to pretend in here. It probably sounds silly, but this is about the only secure place I've got. Sometimes you get new cellmates when old ones get released or transferred, changing the dynamic completely, and once in awhile you have to change cells. But this place is constant. It always smells the same, and you always do the same thing while you're here.

Whispers across the table break me from my thoughts. It's two of the girls with minor charges—I think it was drugs, but I'm not sure. I don't care, and I don't bother to learn their names.

"Hey." They snap their heads up, fear registering on their faces when they see it's me. _Good._ "Shut the fuck up."

"Sorry." They become silent and continue to work. But it only takes fifteen minutes before they resume their chatter. Are they _giggling_? I can't think of any reason to be giggling in this place, and their cackling brings to mind the sound of long nails scraping across a chalkboard. I slam the shirt I'm holding on the table, making as much of a noise I can, and walk up to them.

"What could possibly be so fucking funny that you're giggling?"

They somber quickly. "Sorry, but have you seen the new guard? He can cuff me anytime," one of them says, wiggling her eyebrows. They're crushing over a fucking _guard_? It's the pretty ones that are the most dangerous. They're used to getting what they want, and they will expect to get it here too. The ugly ones are usually happy with a handjob, or sometimes even just a kiss.

But a new guard poses a problem for me. It's important that I get him on my side before bitches like Cashmere get their claws in him. We're in different parts of the prison and most of the inmates are either on my side or hers. She's been inside about two years longer than I have, and she gave me my welcome party when I arrived. After only a couple of days in here, she and her mercenaries beat me up and robbed me of the few personal belongings I had, only to assert her authority.

The bruises and cuts healed, and most of my stuff could be replaced—except for one thing. She took the only photo of _him_ that I had. It's of both of us, me sitting in his lap, and we're laughing at something I can't recall. I tried to commit it to memory, but as the years went by it faded away. I never got the picture back, and I'm still biding my time to get revenge. But it's difficult considering we operate different parts and the few times I do see her, she's always surrounded by her "bodyguards."

"What's his name?"

"Mellark. He'll probably grace us with his presence at lunch."

I spare a glance at the massive clock on the wall. 9:37 a.m. That won't do—I have to get to him as soon as possible. "Where did you see him?"

"In the hallway. I think he was going to Abernathy's office."

"When?"

"About fifteen minutes ago."

That's good news. Hopefully he hasn't met any of the other inmates yet. Maybe I can intercept him before he does. I haven't been to the toilet since I got here, which is a great opportunity. I walk up to the guard standing by the door.

"I need to go to the bathroom."

He checks the watch on his wrist. "You can wait till the break in twenty minutes," he responds dryly.

"I need to go now," I insist. "It's lady trouble," I say, trying to sound uncomfortable, squeezing my thighs together for effect.

He sighs. "Fine, but hurry back."

I scurry around him, making my way toward the bathroom. Before I enter, I look back at the guard, making sure he's not looking, and walk past the door instead.

As soon as he's out of eyesight, I pick up my speed in an attempt to meet this new guard before anyone else does. Fortunately, the counselor's office isn't that far away from the bathroom, so I hope I can make this quick. It's usually enough to the be the first to meet them and form some sort of bond. That way, when—or if—they chose their allegiance, you've already got them somewhat on your side.

But I'm out of luck. The office is locked, and I don't hear any voices inside. Abernathy always has his door open—I think he has to, being a counsellor and all. Here, they take the my-door-is-always-open-policy literally. So if it's closed it must mean he's not there, and not that new guard either. Fuck. I can't go around looking for them, so I guess I have to wait until lunch.

"Everdeen!" a guard snarls behind me. Shit, the odds are really not in my favor today. I turn around, flashing him an innocent smile. "What are you doing here?"

He's tall, with his dark brown hair in what looks like it's supposed to be a crew cut, but it's obviously been a while since he's cut it. He has to shake his head to get rid of his hair from his gray eyes, almost the same shade as mine. He's holding a styrofoam mug, with what I presume is coffee, because based on how red he is around his pupils, he didn't get much sleep last night. It says 'Hawthorne' on his uniform. "I was looking for Mr. Abernathy." Which is sort of true.

"Then you should come when he has visiting hours," he says, pointing at the sign next to the door. "Besides, aren't you supposed to be working? We don't pay you to wander around the hallway." His voice is stern. I stifle a snort. _Pay?_

I approach him. Hopefully I can persuade him to not rat me out. "I'm sorry, Officer Hawthorne." They love when you address them as officers rather than guards. "I just needed to see him—it's really important. Please don't tell anyone. I'd owe you one," I say, sliding my fingers up his arm and hoping he'll respond like most men do. He doesn't seem to mind my touch, but he doesn't say anything for a while either.

He finally breaks the silence. "Just get back to work."

I scramble around him and half-run back to the laundry room. I spend almost two hours stealing subtle glances at the clock and only halfheartedly folding the sheets. Honestly, who's gonna tell the fucking difference? As soon as the sound blares, announcing lunch time, I don't even finish the one I'm folding, just throwing it back in the dryer and hurrying to the dining hall.

As soon as I'm there, my jaw drops. I actually think it literally fucking drops. My eyes go directly to _him_. He still has the same effect on a room—it seems brighter and somehow more radiant. The lines on his face are more distinct, but it only makes him, oh-so-much sexier. His eyes are still the same, though, the same piercing blue gaze that could make any panties drop to the floor soaking wet with just one look. I can't reconcile this image with the battered, bleeding boy who used to haunt my dreams. He's put on some muscles, and he fills out his uniform perfectly—enough to get a hint of the chiseled pectoral and abdominal muscles he's sporting underneath. His hair is a little shorter than it used to be, but I think it's an improvement. He holds his hands behind his back with a straight posture. He doesn't need to assert his masculinity by gripping his belt or spreading his legs.

He's changed, but I can still see the innocence and purity as clearly as all those years ago. Instinctively, my hand covers my mouth, and for the first time in eight years I let myself say his name. It comes out as a whisper, but inside I'm screaming.

 _Peeta._

* * *

Author's note: Please drop me a line and let me know what you think. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr.


	2. Absens haeres non erit

**Author's notes:** Again, Caryn! Thank you for applying you beta wonders to this story. It means the world to me!

Trigger warnings: mention of drug use.

* * *

 _No_. It's not him. It _can't_ be him. During all this time I've been trying to keep him out of my head. Out of sight, out of mind. And he's been out of my mind for eight years. He will _not_ make a reappearance now. I've worked too fucking hard for this. This will ruin everything.

"You're catching flies, Everdeen," an inmate announces.

"I didn't peg you for one of those who would fall for a cowboy," another one says.

They're right. I don't. I fell for him a long time ago. I think I'm still falling.

A push in my back jolts me back to reality. "Move along. You're holding up the line." If I weren't so confused I'd probably send the bitch behind me a glare, promising that she'd pay for that comment later. But I don't. Instead, I catch up with the line, careful not to meet his eyes. He can't know I'm here. Besides, I think I'll crumble to pieces if I look at him one more time.

The food looks like it always does. It doesn't matter what they call it—I wouldn't be surprised if it's the same goo every day, but now I'm happy to have something to occupy my hands. I sit down at my usual spot. No one dares to take it. It happened once, and she ended up with a black eye.

"So what do you want to do?" Clove asks.

"What?" I look at her in confusion.

"That one that pushed you. We have to reciprocate." Clove and Glimmer do my dirty work. In return for carrying out small favors for me, I give them security. I have a network full of inmates—and some guards—in different parts of the prison that do different types of work for me. It's everything from buying something in the commissary for me to taking care of troublesome inmates and smuggling drugs.

"What's she in for?"

"Possession, I think," Glimmer replies. "We should beat her up." She's resourceful and good at procuring weapons from what we have, but she's not that bright. There are better ways than always beating someone up to get your point across.

"Is she on the list?" I have a list of inmates who buy different types of drugs from me. It's good for moments like these to keep tabs of your customers, knowing their weaknesses.

"Yeah."

"Fine. Cut her off. She's not getting _anything_ from _anyone_ for two weeks. And let the others know that if they sell her anything, they'll end up in the infirmary."

A smile spreads on her face, but a whistle echoing across the hall catches everyone's attention. I turn to the source of the noise. _Of course._ It's Mason.

"Finally. They realized we're women." Her gaze is set on Peeta. Yes, it's definitely him. "You can stay in the cell next to mine, cowboy!"

He doesn't flinch—doesn't even acknowledge her presence—and I'm filled with an odd sort of satisfaction.

"Mason! Get back in line and shut the fuck up," another guard shouts at her. It's the one I met in the hallway earlier.

"You've got competition, Hawthorne." She looks back at him, but follows his instructions. During the entire lunch there are whispers and subtle glances Peeta's way. It's not until I'm about to leave when someone at the table next to us speaks up.

"Hey, Mellark! I can give you a tour and show you the ropes around here. I'm sure we can think of a way for you to repay me," she smirks.

He strides up to her table, flashing her a gorgeous smile. "Let's get one thing straight." His voice is still as soft as ever, albeit a little darker. It feels strange hearing it again after all these years. "I've been to three different maximum security prisons. I know all the ropes. I know how you get stuff in and out, and I know where you hide it. Bother me again and I might do a spontaneous sweep of your cell. I know _exactly_ where to look. Now shut up and finish your fucking meal." His smile doesn't falter once, and it's eerie how he can deliver such a threat in that casual tone.

He walks back where he stood and continues to observe the hall. I quickly finish my meal and try to leave as discreetly as possible. I walk past Cato, placing the tray where it belongs. He sneers at me like it's some kind of victory for him. Any other day I would have done something to wipe that fucking grimace off his face, but not today.

I just walk past him and hope that Peeta doesn't notice me.

When I get back to my cell I throw myself under the covers, as if I could block him out with a piece of fabric. He invades my mind no matter what, and I curse myself for reacting this way to his presence. What fucking right does he have to waltz in here after all this time?

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. No. I love him. Fuck, I still love him.

Mason is still at the dining hall, and she'll probably be there for a while. I decide to take the risk and let my hand dip beneath the waistband of my pants. I need some release and I'm already wet. He's always had that effect on me—the sound of his voice, his breath on my skin, the touch of our tongues whirling in a dance we've perfected.

I think of his fingers skating across my breasts, hardening my nipples, and the way he would grab my ass and bury himself inside me a little deeper. My finger slides around my clit in tight, fast circles as I imagine the weight of his cock in my hand, feeling every ridge as I pump him before taking him in my mouth.

I think of the pants and moans he lets out when he fucks me, and it exhilarates me, knowing that I'm the only who gets to hear those sounds. It fills me with a sense of pride. He fills me both mentally and physically. I'm completely at his mercy, and he knows it—just as he's at mine.

The thoughts of him bring me to the edge so fast, and I'm already frantically bucking my hips against the mattress, trying to stifle the moans that threaten to escape my mouth. When I picture his eyes locking on me as he's plunging into me with everything that he's got, it's my undoing. The pleasure explodes inside me in one of the most intense orgasms I've had in a very long time.

My heart is pounding in my ear, and I'm out of breath. Fuck. I hope I didn't make too much noise. It's not uncommon to hear inmates pleasuring themselves—and others. We all do it. You just don't want anyone to know exactly when or where. Because in that moment you are weak—you have no control, and you don't want anyone taking advantage of that.

When I've come back to my senses and caught my breath I turn to the side, facing the wall. What is he doing here? It can't be a coincidence. He must know that I'm here too, but if they knew about our connection, there's no way he would be allowed to work here. He must be fucking pissed at me. He must be here for revenge. He's here to kill me. That must be why he's here. It's the only explanation. Inmates I can protect myself from, but CO's are another matter. If they want to harm you, they will.

I don't know how long I've been lying here, but I'm too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice there's another person in the cell. I quickly snap my head around, and I'm met with Peeta's stare. He's standing casually, leaning against the door. My hand discreetly goes for the cavity in the wall next to the bed where I keep my knife.

"It's not there," he says, holding it up. My heart drops. He's unarmed me, and now there is really nothing anyone can do to stop him from killing me. I've pictured this moment in a thousand ways, but neither of those have been by Peeta's hands. "It's the truth. I know exactly where to look."

"You saw me?"

"Of course I did. You're the reason I'm here," he says calmly, which makes him even more intimidating.

"Just do it fast."

"What?" Confusion is written all over his face. "What are you talking about?"

"You're here to kill me," I say, like I need to inform him.

"What? No. You couldn't be more wrong, Katniss." He moves across the room, and I instinctively curl up against the wall. He halts, hurt registering on his face.

"Then why did you take my knife?"

"Precaution. You'll get it back, I promise. I didn't want to risk you throwing it at me." He doesn't move—only stands in the middle of the cell.

"So you're not here to kill me?" He shakes his head. "Are you angry with me?"

"No," he replies sincerely, taking the knife and gently putting it by the edge of the bed. He doesn't have the same posture of confidence he had during lunch. There's a vulnerability in the way he looks at me. I grab the knife and rapidly put it back where it belongs.

He's still looking at me like he's expecting me to say something. I walk up to him so that our faces are only inches apart, and I can smell a familiar scent of mint. He still uses the same toothpaste, the one I said was my favorite. I raise my gaze, my eyes locking on his. "Then fuck you."

"Katniss—" I know this voice. He's always used it to calm me down. But not this time. I won't allow it.

"Don't you fucking dare say my name again," I say through gritted teeth. "You're a correctional officer, and I'm an inmate. We don't know each other." I can't stay here. I have to leave.

The door is still open, so I bolt for the opening and hurry to the bathrooms. I lock myself into one of the stalls and sit on the toilet, my hands covering my ears. I can't hold it together.

Whatever reason he has for being here, I don't want to hear it. I _can't_. He left me in this fucking place. For the first time since the first night in here, I allow myself to cry. I cry for myself. I cry for him and for us. It's gone. Whatever existed between us is gone.

A gentle knock on the door pulls me from my stupor.

"Occupied." I manage to keep a steady voice despite my sobbing. Another knock. I move to my feet, flinging the door open, and the girl on the other side instantly backs away. "Are you deaf or color blind?" I point to the lock. "See this thing here? When it's red, it means someone's in here."

"I know, I'm sorry. I just—" I sigh loudly, hoping it will get her to the point faster. "I need _something_." She can't stand still, and she keeps rubbing her arms.

 _Something_ doesn't tell me anything—she has to be more specific. Then I recognize her—it's the girl who shoved me in line at lunch. She must be desperate, coming to me so soon.

"No can do." I have to keep up appearances, even though the only thing I want to do right now is curl up and die.

"I didn't even know it was you. Come on, cut me some slack," she pleads.

"How desperate are you?"

She licks her lips and puts her hand between my legs, rubbing me. "Very."

I swat her hand away. I'm no stranger to letting someone else finish me off once in awhile—you get tired of your own fingers sometimes. But it's not the currency I use. I need a more long-lived commitment. "That's not how this works. If I let you have some, you are _mine_. You will do as _I_ say, and if I catch you so much as looking Cashmere's way, I know many people in here who just can't wait to beat someone up."

She nods and rubs her nose. I go to the soap container and remove it—there's a loose tile, and behind it I have a small bag with crystal meth. I take it and toss it to her.

"I move my shit everyday, so don't you even think about going back here, thinking you can rip me off."

"I-I, won't," she stammers as I walk past her.

"You junkies are the easiest."

When I get back to my cell Peeta's gone, but Mason is back.

"I saw you eyeing that new guard." Twice in two days. She must really be in a chatty mood.

"Yeah, didn't everyone? He's the first one in here who fills out his uniform." I pause. "In the right places. You announced it in front of everyone, if I'm not mistaken."

"Just letting him know his options, is all. But you were eye-fucking him."

Shit, I didn't realize I was that obvious. "Hm? He would be a good distraction from Cato, I suppose."

She just snorts.

* * *

The next day he's back in the dining hall. I guess I shouldn't be surprised—he does work here, and I can't avoid him forever. I can't make him quit.

A hand waving in front of my face suddenly obscures my view. "Hey, wake up."

"What?"

"That meth head. She got her hands on a bindle," Clove tells me.

"Yeah, I gave it to her."

"What? Are you going soft, Everdeen?" Glimmer asks in shock.

I point at her. "Listen. To get where I am today, you need brawns _and_ brains." I tap my finger on my temple. "I could have denied her, but then she'd probably gone to Cashmere instead. Now, I've got another foot soldier. Besides, I didn't say she could have more than one."

"Ah, you're cruel." Glimmer nods her head, apparently liking my tactic.

"I am. And don't ever call me fucking soft again. I can cut _you_ off too." Glimmer is also a drug addict. That's how I got her too. Her face falls, and she's quiet for the rest of the meal.

I try to steal subtle glances Peeta's way. I don't want to. I want to forget him, but I can't help myself from looking his way. He's shaved clean, with not even a trace of stubble, and his hair is perfect, just the right length and styled just the right amount. Why does he have to be so fucking gorgeous?

It's the same routine every day. I see him three times a day, trying not to get caught staring, and then I rub one off when I can. I can't help the way my body responds to him. It's the same as it was before— that hasn't changed.

One night I notice my knife's gone missing, and I know exactly who to blame. He's the only one who knows I have it. I go straight for the dining hall. Since he's always there, I guess he's also there between meals.

He's sitting by one of the tables, alone in the entire room. It feels weird, being here without a bunch of people eating. His shoulders are slumped, and he's leaning on one of his elbows, looking down at the table. In front of him is my knife. I take a quick look around to make sure the room is completely empty.

"This will get you sent to max, you know that right?" he says, not taking his eyes off the table.

"Yeah. That's not the only thing I do in here that will," I say as I cautiously sit across from him. "Why haven't you turned it in?"

"I want you to hear me out," he says, pushing the knife my direction. "But I won't force you. You can take it and leave. I won't turn you in, you have my word. But I will not disappear, and I won't give up," he says matter-of-factly.

I slam my hand on the table, grabbing the knife and quickly shoving it in my pocket. "You've had eight fucking years," I seeth. "You left me in here to rot, and now you think you can come here and everything's gonna be alright?"

"I don't," he says solemnly.

"Good. Because it's not gonna happen, so save yourself the trouble. Turn me in. I don't care. That way I won't have to look at you every fucking day, reminding me that I'm here because of _you_!" I don't even mean the last part. I said it just to hurt him, and by the way his eyes instantly tear up, I know I've succeeded. But I don't see it as a victory. It feels like we've both lost.

"I'm sorry that's the way you see it," he whispers.

Inside I'm screaming. I want to take him in my arms and comfort him. I see his pain, but I cannot give in to it. So I leave before I do something stupid like cry.

* * *

It's a Thursday when it happens. I know because it says "soup" on the menu. Thursday is "soup day." Why they bother to call it a menu is beyond me—it's just a list of different names for the same thing.

I'm not listening to Glimmer's and Clove's chatter. They're useful, but I don't particularly enjoy their company. As always, Peeta overlooks the dining hall. After he shut that girl up on his first day there have been no more catcalls. He has earned the inmates' respect.

I've managed to avoid any more encounters with him, but I don't miss his glances my way when no one else is looking. I can't say I hate it. I kind of like the feeling of him looking out for me. I know I shouldn't, but I do. Today, he's standing next to Cato. Their physical appearances are similar, blond with quite a muscular build, though Cato is one or two inches taller. But their personalities are polar opposites.

Cato says something to him that I don't quite catch—I usually don't, but his comment is obviously funny because Peeta gives him a subtle laugh. How can he stand there and fucking laugh? With Cato, of all people? Is this place or this situation a joke to him? I don't know if it's the tension between us that has been building ever since he came here, or if it's something else, but my body moves of its own accord. It's like I'm on autopilot and I snap.

I leave my tray on the table and walk with determined steps to them. Both Cato and Peeta see me, but technically I haven't broken any rules, so they can't do anything. My hands automatically go for Peeta's chest, and I push him back. Hard. He manages to keep his balance, but the damage I caused isn't physical.

I instantly regret it. What in the world was I thinking? But before I can do anything to try to rectify the situation an arm locks around my waist and someone harshly slams me to the ground. A hand holds my head down while my hands are cuffed behind my back.

"She's feisty, this one," I hear Cato musing as he holds me down. My face is pushed to the side, away from them, so I can't see Peeta. It's probably a good thing. "You know where you're going," he wheezes into my ear. I do, but I don't dignify him with an answer.

I'm brusquely hauled up to my feet by rough hands, and I'm sure it will bruise. Standing up, I catch a glimpse of Peeta. He's not embarrassed by being pushed by a female inmate, as most other guards in here would be.

"Hey, take it easy, man," he tells Cato calmly. "She's already cuffed." _Why does he care?_ I just humiliated him in front of the entire dining hall, and he cares about how Cato's manhandling me?

"Why? These sluts can't go around here thinking that they set the rules. _We_ fucking own this place."

Peeta flinches a little at his use of the word _slut_ , but other than that, his expression is impassive. "Do it by the book. You don't want her getting off on a technicality." It doesn't matter if Cato does it by the book or not—they don't care about proper protocol here.

I've never heard him so calculating and cold before, and _that_ scares me more than anything else.

Cato huffs, but his grip loosens a little, and he and another guard drag me away. Before we turn the corner I manage turn my head in Peeta's direction. He's not there, and a pang of regret hits me. I'm still angry, but I've gotten used to seeing him and being around him again.

But now it will be a long time before I see him again.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** Please drop me a line and tell me what you think of this story. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr and I'm always up for chatting!


	3. In camera

**Author's note:** I cannot express all my love and gratitude to papofglencoe! Thanks to you, this story is so much better!

 **Trigger warning: child abuse**

* * *

Solitary confinement. That's what they call it. _The hole_ is a more accurate description—that's basically what it is. I'd say it's a ten-by-five foot room with a bed and a toilet. That's it. So far, I've managed to stay out of this place, so I have no idea what to expect.

The slam of the door behind me startles me, and I instinctively hurl myself at it, banging frantically.

"Hey! How long will I be in here?" No answer. I keep hitting the door until my hands are numb and I slide down in defeat. I'd never would have thought that the reason I'd be down here would be for striking a guard, let alone Peeta. I've never used force against a CO before, and I've never planned on it either. It's a foolish thing to do, because I know they will retaliate—tenfold.

But that's not what's bothering me the most. It's the fact that I used violence against Peeta. _Peeta_ , of all people. I've said some mean things to him, but I never thought I'd resort to using my fists. Our first physical contact in almost a decade—and I hit him. I'm no better than _her_. I deserve to be here.

After I've given up on anyone opening the door, I move to the bed. The mattress is thinner than the one I'm used to, so it's almost like sitting directly on the bed frame. There is no window or clock, so there's no way I will be able to keep track of time. It was lunch when I got here, so the next meal will be supper—if they plan on feeding me.

I guess they don't. I must have been here for twelve hours, pacing and counting the small cracks in the cement walls. Trying to sleep might help me forget about the hunger, so I lie down on the bed, but the metal bars are poking through the bedding—it feels like they're poking my bones. The floor is at least flat, so I throw the mattress down there, alleviating some of the pain. It's a hardly an improvement, but I'll take it, and at some point sleep claims me.

I'm startled awake by the opening of a hatch on the door, and a tray slides into the room. Jumping up from the mattress I bolt for the door, banging on it.

"Hey, how long have I've been in here?" No answer. I give it a couple of more beats and kicks, but it's pointless. All I'm rewarded with is silence. A grumble in my stomach shifts my focus to the tray I've been given, but I lose my appetite as soon as I see its content. I didn't know it was possible to make food _less_ appetizing than what I usually get, but apparently it is. Refusing to eat it, I slide the tray across the floor.

I go back to my mattress, hoping to get some more sleep. That's probably the best way to pass the time, and I drift in and out of consciousness. There's no way of telling how long I've been out when I wake up, so I try to keep track of how many times I've been fed, but that proves to be a difficult task too. They change the trays every meal, so I can't count them.

Every time the hatch opens it's the same procedure—I slam my fist against the door, demanding to know how long I've been here and refusing to eat the food. There's never an answer, but if I'm going to die here, I will _not_ go quietly.

Not eating is starting to take its toll on me, and the longer I spend here, the less powerful my cries are when they slide in the tray. But I still refuse it—I think I could die of hunger here, just out of spite. The lack of nutrients makes me start to hallucinate—at least I think so. I'm fairly sure that the blood covering the walls earlier wasn't real.

"It's Friday night." It's probably a figment of my imagination, because the voice is oddly similar to Peeta's. "Please, Katniss. Just eat the food." And then he's gone. I'm hurled back in time to another Friday night—back to when it all started.

 _I don't want to be here, but everyone is required to make an appearance._

" _Just eat the food, and then you can go home," someone says behind my back, interrupting my staring competition with the table full of side dishes. I turn around and meet a pair of stunningly blue eyes. They belong to the person whose fault it is we have to be here—Peeta._

" _I don't think I can walk out of here without anyone noticing. They take note of attendance."_

" _So? You're already signed in, aren't you? I don't think they'll have a roll call. Besides, I feel bad enough already for dragging everyone here."_

" _It's not your fault."_

" _I think it is."_

 _Last week the school's wrestling team—which Peeta is the captain of—won a statewide tournament. I know because I watched every one of his matches. Not because wrestling interests me—_ Peeta _does. I wish I could say I don't care about boys. I have other issues that I should be more concerned about. Like a dead father and an absent mother. But his ocean blue eyes, wavy blond hair, and warm-hearted personality are simply irresistible._

 _The board was so proud to have a winner representing the school that the principal organized a get-together—with mandatory attendance. I'm not enjoying spending time in a huge gymnasium full of people I don't know, but everyone's appearing to have a better time than I had expected._

" _Okay, it_ is _your fault," I smile, a heat creeping up on my neck. "But it's a nice turn-out," I smirk, fidgeting with my braid._

 _Peeta chuckles. "Yeah, I think someone spiked the punch, so..." he trails off, looking out over the crowd. Peeta? Breaking the rules? He's always striked me as moral compass, but this makes him even more interesting._

" _Someone?" I question. Shit, did I just flirt?_

 _He looks down in his red solo cup. "Yeah,_ someone _." A smile creeps up on his face. Is he blushing? It's hard to tell with the lighting in here._

" _Congratulations on the win, by the way."_

" _Thanks. But I don't know if it was worth it, though. I've been paraded around on a victory tour like some trophy the entire week." He sighs. "Between this and school, I haven't had time for anything else, you know? I haven't had any time alone whatsoever."_

 _Peeta's always surrounded by people—I thought he preferred it that way._

" _Maybe it'll cool down next week."_

" _Hopefully."_

 _It's a natural end to the conversation, so we fall silent after that. It's awkward—at least for me. I'm standing next to the guy I've been secretly pining after for the entire year, and now that we're alone I don't know what to say. I don't even know why he's talking to me. We share some classes and greet each other in the hallway, but that's it. We're not friends._

" _So what do you do in your alone time?" I blurt out in a feeble attempt to end the silence._

 _He looks at me in surprise but answers without hesitation. "I draw."_

" _You draw?"_

" _Yeah, nothing much. Only sketches and doodles and stuff like that. But it's therapeutic." He seems lost in thought, a forlorn expression on his face. "Anyway." He turns back to me. "Can I offer you some punch?" he asks, gesturing for the bowl._

 _Ever since I first laid my eyes on him a year ago I knew I could never deny him anything. "Yeah, sure."_

 _The evening ends the best way possible—Peeta pressing my back into the brick wall behind the gymnasium and his tongue swirling around mine. I must be dreaming. No, not in my wildest dreams could I've imagined something like this happening. Or that it would feel this good._

 _His hands on my hips, gripping me firmly, and his thumbs gently gracing the exposed skin above my waist will be etched to my body forever. I rest my hands on his solid chest, and when I lock them around his neck, pulling him closer, he moves my hips closer to his, and I let out a moan in his mouth._

 _At this, he skates his hands under my shirt and settles on my ribcage, right below my bra. There's an ache between my legs, and I'm suddenly aware of exactly where this is going._

" _Peeta," I sigh, breaking the kiss. His lips leave mine, and I instantly miss them. "I... I've never..." I don't finish the sentence, hoping he'll understand what I'm trying to say. He's probably used to experienced girls, and here I am—a flat-chested virgin with no curves and no—_

" _Me neither."_

" _You mean, you haven't...?"_

" _No. Disappointed?" he asks dryly. He removes his hands from me, dragging one of them through his tousled hair and turning away. "I'm a fucking failure," he mutters under his breath._

" _What? No, why would I be disappointed?" I question, putting my hand on one his shoulders, beckoning him to turn back to me. "I'm surprised, is all." I'm actually kind of relieved._

 _He puts his hand on mine, squeezing it gently. Taking a deep breath, like he's mentally preparing for something, he finally turns around. He smiles, but I can see right through it—something is bothering him. "Let me walk you home," he offers._

" _Okay."_

 _We walk in silence, and when we're halfway to my house, Peeta envelops my hand in his, lacing our fingers together. A warm, fuzzy feeling from where we're touching spreads throughout my entire body._

 _When we're outside my front door, there's an awkward silence—neither of us knows how say goodbye. But it's Peeta who speaks first._

" _If you want to I can... uhm… pick you up on Monday." He rubs the side of his neck. "So you don't have to walk to school, I mean."_

 _How does he know that I always walk to school? "Yeah, that would be great." I sound more casual than I thought I would, considering I'm bouncing up and down inside._

" _Okay, see you then," he says, giving me kiss on the cheek._

 _He keeps his promise, picking me up Monday morning, and we walk into the school building hand-in-hand. Knowing what a statement that makes, I'm nervous as hell, but Peeta takes it in stride. I'm not popular. I'm a nobody, and our coming in together like this raises quite a few eyebrows. But comments thrown our way roll off him like water off a duck's back, and I feel surprisingly at ease._

* * *

 _It takes about a week before I notice his first bruise._

 _It's a Wednesday, and I haven't seen him all day. He's had practice all morning, so when I spot him by his locker I half-run to him, hugging him from behind._

" _Ouch," he exclaims, instantly turning around. The look of pain on his face disappears and is replaced by a smile. "Oh, hey," he says, kissing me on the mouth. I'm still not used to kissing in public, but I definitely like the softness of Peeta's lips, and suddenly I don't give a rat's ass about who's looking._

" _What's the matter?" I ask when we break apart._

" _Nothing, just an occupational injury," he tries to joke it off, leaning in for another kiss._

" _Let me see." I grasp for his shirt, but he stops me._

" _It's nothing, really. Just drop it." He sounds annoyed._

 _I try to give him a stern look, and his expression softens. He sighs and lifts up his shirt, revealing a bruise the size of a fist on his side, right above his waist. It's dark around the edges, but the center is starting to turn yellow._

" _Oh my god, Peeta. What happened?"_

" _I took a knee to the side during practice."_

" _This is not from today."_

" _So maybe it was last week?" he sighs. "Wrestling is a physical sport." He pulls his shirt down again, seemingly embarrassed. I have no knowledge about how common bruises like that are in wrestling, so I guess I have to take his word for it._

* * *

 _It takes a month before I meet his mother—she's a bitch._

 _Peeta and I are lying on his bed, tongues dancing around one another's and hands wandering. It started out innocently—I came here with the intention of studying. We have a calculus test next week, and Peeta was supposed to help me. We started by the fireplace in the the downstairs living room, but he kept distracting me, drawing flowers in my notebook and trailing kisses down my neck._

 _His thumbs trace the outside of my bra, underneath my shirt, and my elbows rest on either side of his face as I thread my fingers through his hair. I rest my full bodyweight on him, but he doesn't seem bothered by it._

 _When he dips his thumb underneath my bra—skating it across my nipple—I don't know how to handle the sensation. Instinctively, I buck my hips against his, and I'm surprised by how good it feels. I want to feel more of him._

 _The sound from the front door startles us both, but Peeta looks downright scared. He bolts up, almost pushing me off the bed. Before I get a chance to ask him about it, he quickly scrambles the papers and notes on the floor underneath the bed, along with his leather sketchbook. I'm adjusting my shirt when the door swings open, revealing a woman in her forties. Her blond hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and her icy blue eyes give me the chills._

" _Hey, Mom," Peeta says carefully._

 _She doesn't say anything, her eyes not meeting either of ours. Peeta seems paralyzed at her presence. Without warning she walks into the room, picking up his sketchbook sticking out from under the bed. She inspects its content with suspicion and shoots a glare Peeta's way._

" _Downstairs." Then she leaves._

 _We sit still a couple of seconds before Peeta moves to leave. "I'll be right back," he whispers, standing up, dragging a hand through his hair. Is he really gonna listen to her? Granted, I don't know the kind of relationship they have, but that was weird—disrespecting our privacy and snatching his personal belongings right before our eyes._

" _Peeta?"_

 _He turns around. "Just wait here," he croaks, carefully closing the door and leaving._

 _As soon as I hear him walking downstairs I dart for the door, pressing my ear against it. After a couple of seconds I hear hushed voices, but I can't make out what they're saying. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I sneak out in the hallway, allowing me to hear the conversation._

" _Is this what you're wasting your time on?" she questions. "Scribblings and girls?"_

 _Silence._

" _Let me tell you one thing, Peeta. This—it stops now."_

" _Please, Mom. Don't." His voice has never sounded weaker._

" _Drawing is for sissies." There's a thud, but I can't figure out what caused it. "Are you a sissy, Peeta?" she taunts. I can't believe what I'm hearing—she's bullying her own son._

" _No."_

" _Then you better wipe those tears away. Boys don't cry," she hisses._

 _I can't stay up here—not when she's talking to him like that. Even if we've only been together for a month I feel like I've known him forever. He always stands up for what he believes is right. That's why I don't recognize this Peeta. Why doesn't he stand his ground? He's never at a loss for words._

 _I make a point of walking down the stairs loudly, announcing my arrival. Both Peeta and his mom jerk their heads my way. His eyes are red, and he looks a little surprised. Something smells off, but I can't put my finger of it._

" _Do you think you can take me home, Peeta?" I want to take him out of this toxic environment._

" _Yeah, sure."_

 _He puts his arm around my shoulder, and we leave. But I don't miss the addition to the fireplace—the remnants of a book with leather casing._

* * *

 _It takes a year before I realize that his cuts and bruises are not from wrestling._

 _Today is Peeta's eighteenth birthday, and I'm about to surprise him at home. We're going out tonight, but I want to see him every hour of the day. I'm about to ring the doorbell when I hear loud voices from the open kitchen window. I peak through the window next to the door where I can see part of the kitchen through the foyer. Peeta's sitting by the table, his shoulders slumped, and he's lazily spinning a spoon on the table. Their voices are loud enough for me to hear._

" _Do you want to drink your life away? Fine, be my guest."_

" _It's one night, Mom. And it's my birthday."_

" _Don't remind me. Eighteen years ago since the worst day of my life." Peeta doesn't even react to her malicious words—as if he's heard them before._

" _Then you don't mind me spending the night elsewhere," he says calmly. Like they're having a casual conversation._

" _As long as you live under my roof, you live by my rules. And you will not spend the night with that harlot."_

" _Her name is Katniss. And she's not—"_

" _I don't fucking care! Do you want to become a teen dad, Peeta?" Silence. "Because that's what you'll become if you spend all your time with trash like that. Lord, I just hope you use protection before sticking it in her."_

 _I balk at her words, and Peeta raises his voice, pointing finger at her._

" _Don't." He pauses. "Just don't," he says with a remarkable steadiness._

" _You will come home right after school," she responds, changing the subject. "Understood?"_

" _Why? It's not like we're going to celebrate."_

" _Are you giving me attitude?"_

 _Then she slaps him. Hard. I stumble back in surprise and disgust, almost tripping on the stairs. After I've regained my bearing, I gather enough strength to look through the window again. This time I only see his mother hunching over something and swinging her arms. Back and forth. It takes me a few seconds before I realize it's Peeta she's hitting._

 _I know that Peeta and his mother have a strained relationship—to put it mildly. I've heard what she says to him, both in person and by Peeta's account. But it never occurred to me that she was violent. I hate her, but now I wish that there was a stronger word. Hate isn't enough._

 _Instinctively I start banging the door, hoping it will stop her._

 _It feels like hours, but in reality I think it's seconds, before Peeta opens the door. His cheek is red, and he's obviously upset. He tries to put on a neutral face for me, but I see right through it._

" _Katniss, hey. What are you doing here?"_

 _I don't answer him. Instead, I take his hand, yanking him outside and closing the door shut. I put my hand on his face, and he's doing his best not to flinch at the touch. It all make sense to me know. The cuts, the bruises. They're not from wrestling—he's used it as a way of keeping his mother's abuse from the public eye. But I should've seen it. I should've understood._

" _How long?"_

 _There's confusion in his eyes at first. Then he realizes, sighing before answering._

" _All my life."_

* * *

 _It takes two years before the last time she lays a hand on Peeta._

 _I get a call from his father._

" _It's Peeta," he says. "There's been an accident."_

 _I don't know what to say. The only thing I hear is that Peeta's in the hospital before hanging up and rushing to get to him. When I get there, I search for the room number his father gave me, ignoring the nurses saying that only immediate family is allowed—I'm the closest thing to family he's got._

 _Walking into the room, I notice his father in a chair by the window, but I don't acknowledge him. I've barely seen him for the two years Peeta and I've been together. Peeta's unconscious, the white sheets a chilly contrast to his bloodstained and bruised face. His hair usually shines a golden blonde, but now it's covered in a white bandage, and the few locks that are visible have dried in red and brown lumps. If this is how he looks I can only imagine what shape his car is in._

" _Peeta," I whisper, approaching the hospital bed and taking his hand in mine. He's always warm, but now I'm caressing cold, lifeless fingers. Blood has settled and dried in his cuticles, and I'm instantly annoyed that someone hasn't cleaned him up. He deserves more dignity than to be lying here in his own blood._

 _There's a small adjoining bathroom, and I take a couple of paper tissues, soaking them and walking back to Peeta. I start with his hands, wiping the blood away. It dissolves easily in the water and drips steadily down his fingers, forming a red pool on the floor. Moving to his arms, I notice a number of old cuts and scars. Some have been there for as long as I've known him, but a few have occurred over the last couple of years._

 _I take another wet paper tissue and swipe it across his forehead, but his face is so bruised that it barely makes a difference. Instead, I clean the few free locks, dissolving the blood and running my hands through it, massaging his scalp, careful not to touch the bandage covering the majority of his head. I clean his entire body, and only when I've wiped his upper body and my hands start to move downward does his father excuse himself, claiming he's going to get some coffee._

" _What happened to you?" I whisper as soon as we're alone, but I'm not expecting an answer. I've heard that even if you're not conscious familiar voices can be calming._

 _Not long after his father comes back, the doctor decides to make an appearance too. I don't understand much of what she's saying—blunt force trauma, medically induced coma—everything jumbles around in my mind._

" _The worst part was the hit to his head," she says, pointing at the bandage, and I can't help but feel that she's treating him like a mannequin as opposed to a human being._

" _Will he be alright?" I interrupt her volley of medical terms that no one understands._

" _We can't know the extent of his injury for sure until he wakes up." She takes a breath. "But there is something else I want to discuss with you. There are some older injuries that concern me."_

" _Peeta's a wrestler," his father says immediately._

 _The doctor scrunches her nose, eyeing him. "Well, these injuries aren't consistent with wrestling," she says slowly._

" _What are you trying to say, doctor?"_

" _Don't play dumb," I snap. "You know she's been hitting him his entire life. How you can stay married to that fucking shrew is beyond me."_

 _The doctor puts a hand on my shoulder, urging me to calm down. "Do you want to press charges?"_

" _Can you do that? For old injuries? I ask._

 _She looks confused. "No, I mean this incident. We've documented the injuries."_

 _I whip my head around to look at his father. His eyes are downcast. When he said there had been an accident, I assumed it was a car crash. His mother hitting him is not an "accident"—it's assault. She's caused all types of injuries, but I never thought that she would—or could—go to this extreme._

"She _did this?" I croak._

" _Normally, I'd wait until the patient is awake, but with injuries like this, the assailant is considered a flight risk. So if you want to contact the police, now is the time."_

" _No. Thank you, doctor."_

" _What?! She deserves to rot in hell for everything she's put Peeta through." I can't believe what I'm hearing. He has neglected his wife's abuse Peeta's entire life. Now he has the opportunity to redeem himself and for once make a statement. And he decides to_ not _stand up for Peeta when he has the chance—it's the ultimate betrayal._

" _Since he is over eighteen I won't be contacting child protective services." She throws Peeta's dad a hard look. "But know this, if this would have happened before he turned eighteen I would be required to, and would gladly, call CPS. By the amount of scars of varying ages, he was physically abused long before he turned eighteen." She pauses. "But since Peeta is of age, when he regains consciousness, he is within his rights to contact the police himself."_

 _He won't. I know he won't. Then he would have done it a long time ago, and I think the doctor realizes it too, because she gives me a sympathetic look before leaving the room._

" _That evil bitch almost beat your son to death, and you're letting her off the hook?" I hiss, my hands grabbing the armrests on his chair._

" _It's a little more complicated than that, Katniss." His voice is dejected, like he doesn't even care._

" _No, it's not complicated at all. She did this to him," I say, gesturing to Peeta. "Everything else is irrelevant. There are no mitigating factors."_

" _Contacting the police won't help. She will retaliate, and it won't be directed toward me—it will be toward Peeta," he tries to defend his decision, but I'm put off by how he uses his wife as an excuse to escape his responsibility._

" _You've been watching him getting beaten day after day and turned a blind eye. Obviously it doesn't work. You need to do something. For Peeta," I try to reason with him, feeling tears prickling my eyes._

" _This will not happen again. I promise."_

 _He's avoiding the issue and I know in my heart that if no one does anything, everything will go back to how it was before—or worse._

" _No. It won't."_

* * *

 _Dad taught me to shoot once. I often joined him when he went hunting before he died. I only used the rifle once, shooting at inanimate objects. I am—by no means—an expert, but I'm a fast learner. Inside the gun locker there's also a pistol—I've never fired it, but I've seen dad use it. It's heavier than I'd imagined, and the cool metal against my fingers sends chills down my spine._

 _I don't remember much of the drive over here. The door is unlocked, and I'm surprised that she's actually still here. I'd figured she would have left town by now. I'm partially right, because, by the looks of it, she's planning to leave soon, packing her bags._

" _Why?"_

 _She whips her head around, her eyes widening when she sees me._

" _Why do you hate him so much? What has he ever done to you?" I say, pointing the gun at her face. My hand is surprisingly steady._

" _It was self-defense," she tries to argue, holding up both of her hands._

" _Don't lie."_

" _I'm not," she pleads. "He hit me."_

 _Her words send my anger spiraling. All his life she's been abusing him—physically and mentally. Not once has he reciprocated out of fear of turning into her. Now, he finally did it, and it earned him a bed in the hospital. And somehow she still manages to pin this on him._

 _This has to stop now. It's been going on way too long. I cock the gun, holding it with both hands now. She looks at me, but she doesn't seem afraid._

" _You won't do it. You're a pussy, just like him."_

 _I'm thrown back to the hospital, seeing Peeta's lifeless form, covered in bruises, cuts and a bandage around his head. This cannot happen again—I won't allow it._

 _I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger. Again. Again. Again. For every shot I remind myself why I'm doing this. For Peeta. For Peeta. For Peeta._

 _She will never hurt him again._

The sounds from the gun blend with the noise outside, and I'm thrown back to reality. The noise sounds oddly close to knocking. Why would anyone knock on this door?

The hatch they use to slide in the food trays is open, and I approach it carefully, peeking out. I must still be hallucinating because Peeta is standing there. And instead of the usual stale brown mess on the tray, there's a loaf of bread.

"Walnut and raisins," he says. My favorite. _He remembers._ I wish I had the willpower to refuse it, but at this point I'm so hungry I can't leave it. I take a large chunk—it tastes heavenly.

I don't speak until I've devoured almost the entire loaf. "Why are you here?" I ask, my voice breaking.

"You really want to know?"

We haven't really talked since before the "accident." I guess I at least can let him explain why he left me here in this hell-hole. If out of nothing other than curiosity.

"Yes."

* * *

 **Author's note:** Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think. I'm always up for chatting. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr.


	4. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

**Author's notes:** Trigger warning: Graphic depiction of attempted rape.

All my love to papofglencoe who's my biggest inspiration and support. She's also the reason my stories aren't filled with grammatical errors and typos.

There's a little nod to Red rising in this chapter. I don't own that trilogy either.

* * *

"You have one more day in here. I'll come find you after that," he says quietly, almost as a whisper. "I have to get back before they notice I'm gone."

He's about to close the hatch when I call out to him.

"Peeta?"

He stops his movement, holding the window half-open.

"I shouldn't have pushed you," I say in a whisper.

"Don't worry about it." He stands still for a couple of seconds, like he's contemplating saying something else, but eventually closes it.

And once again I'm left alone with nothing else to occupy me other than my own thoughts. But the knowledge of having only one more day in here puts me at ease. I'll take Mason's company any day over this.

If I'm not mistaken, they slide in a new tray three more times. But after Peeta's visit I don't bang the door anymore. I still refuse the food, though—the loaf of bread Peeta brought is enough for the remainder of my stay here.

The fourth time someone approaches my cell, the door opens, revealing one of the few decent guards in this prison. I'm sitting on the floor, and Thresh looks down on me from the door opening.

"Come on, Everdeen."

I consider not moving, anything to make my stay here harder for everyone. That way maybe they think twice before sending me down here again. But that would only force Thresh to carry me out of here, and I have no quarrel with him. So I walk up to him, letting him cuff me and lead me back to my cell.

"You're usually smart, Everdeen. Why did you have to go against a CO? You know how some of the guards react to shit like that."

His concern is genuine, and I know what he means. When I was in the hole, I was safe—no one could touch me there. Now that I'm back, there is no stopping some of the guards from getting back at me for hitting Peeta. It doesn't matter to them if _he_ wants revenge. Most of them see the guards as a brotherhood—mess with one, and you mess with all.

Our first stop is Abernathy's office. I feel like a kid who's come back from detention and now has to face the principal to talk about the consequences of their behavior.

Thresh closes the door, and I slump down on the chair across from the desk.

"Well, I never thought I'd live to see the day."

There's no question, so I don't feel the need to answer him. Instead, I lock my eyes on one of his pens on the desk, trying to look indifferent.

"Yeah, I know you're not a talker," he says, refilling his cup with something way stronger than coffee. "What did the Mellark boy do to you?" He pauses, the cup inches from his mouth. "Did he introduce you to _little_ Mellark? He doesn't strike me as the type, but you never know."

I huff, annoyed that he would even consider Peeta forcing himself on someone. "No."

"So?" He gestures for me to explain. I could lie, but Abernathy would see right through it, so I just stay silent.

He sighs. "You're not going to tell me, are you?" I glare at him. "Fine, I'll just make something up for the report. You can leave."

As soon as I stand up, he puts his feet on the table, pinching his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Hey, Everdeen," he barks when I'm at the door. "I'm not the enemy."

As soon as I'm out of his office I head for the bathroom—I need a shower. The only way of cleaning myself the last two days has been the small sink in my cell, but that doesn't cut it. This is not the time I usually shower—there's a schedule. But the guard outside is one of mine. I've blown him so many times I've lost count, so he lets me pass anyway. The door to the stall closes behind me and I swiftly slip out of my clothes and let the water rinse me of everything from that place. There's normally a line to the showers, so I usually make it quick. But today the place is empty, so I decide to take advantage and stay a few minutes extra under the cascading water.

I'm back just in time for supper. Glimmer and Clove chatter my ears off, but I try to concentrate on the food. It's actually pretty good—considering. I quickly finish my meal and head back to my cell—I've missed my bed. The corridor is seemingly empty. Most people are probably still in the hall.

A hand covers my mouth and yanks me backward, and an arm wraps around my waist to keep me from falling. It's one of the guards coming to retaliate—probably Cato. I'm forced into a narrow corridor I haven't seen before and then into an ever smaller one. If you don't know it's here you'd probably never find it. The grip on me loosens, and I'm taken aback when I see it's Peeta who's brought me here.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so rough," he says, releasing me completely. He switches places with me, putting me between him and the only opening out of here.

"I've had rougher."

He doesn't speak for a couple of seconds, letting the impact of my statement settle in.

"So..." He rubs the back of his neck. "What do you want to know?"

I have so many questions I don't really know where to start. So I start with the most important one, the one that's been burning a hole in my soul. I did what I did for Peeta. _I_ know that. But if he can't see it, everything's been in vain.

"When did you find out that…? That I was the one who…?" For some reason I can't bring myself to say the word, _murdered your mother._ It sounds so cold. But then again, that's probably what I have become.

"As soon as I heard the news, I knew," he says quietly.

"And how did you feel about that?" I ask carefully, afraid of finding out that he hates me for it.

"Relieved. Is that weird?"

Nothing about his family situation was normal, so there is no right way to react to something like that. "No."

"I wanted to go to your trial, but I couldn't. I couldn't even leave the hospital. Hell, I could barely walk. My leg was pretty fucked up, so I had a lot of physical therapy. I still have a limp."

I remember searching for Peeta in the courtroom, but I never saw him—I assumed it was because he hated me. I chose not to testify—I didn't want to talk about Peeta's and my relationship or the one he had with his mother. It was too personal. Besides, if I did, Peeta would be forced to testify, and I couldn't put him through that too.

My lawyer wanted to argue temporary insanity, that seeing Peeta caused me to snap and that I didn't know what I was doing. But I was completely sane at the time and knew full well the consequences of my actions. I didn't regret it—I still don't.

"I've been wanting to see you ever since I woke up."

There is a visiting room and telephones, both of which he could have used. "So you waited eight years?" I ask dryly, the bitterness evident.

"I know how it looks. You think I abandoned you, but that's not it. At all. I—" A beep from his radio interrupts him.

"Yeah?" he says into the comm without removing it from his shoulder.

"You're needed in cellblock C," the voice in the radio says.

"Okay, I'll be right there," Peeta answers. He looks back to me. "I have to go." As he walks past me, he raises his hand as if he's going to put it on my shoulder, but it lingers in the air. He must change his mind, because he retracts it again. "I… I've missed you," he whispers. Then he's gone.

That was the longest conversation we've had since before I was incarcerated, but it doesn't feel like I got that much information out of it. If anything, it raised even more questions. If he didn't abandon me, why hasn't he come to see me? And even if his reason is legitimate, will I be able to let it go? I've been angry for so long I'm not sure if I can feel anything else.

When I get back to the hallway, it's bustling with inmates getting back from supper. Glimmer grabs me by the arm and drags me toward another corridor.

"Come on, you've got to see this," she says without looking at me. I don't like how hard her grip is on my arm, and after this, I will let her know that. But for the time being I relent and follow her.

"What is it?"

"You've got to see it for yourself."

I'm not going to just blindly follow her wherever she leads me, so I pull to a halt, forcing her to do the same. "That's not how this works." She seems to have forgotten that we are not equals. "Tell me what it is, and then I'll decide if it's worth my attention."

She glances over my shoulder, and I follow the direction of her gaze—big mistake. When I turn my head I'm shoved into the closet we've stopped outside, and I fall over, fortunately managing to let my hands break the fall. Someone is blocking the door—Hawthorne.

"If I'm not mistaken, you owe me something," he taunts, closing the door. _That's what this whole charade was for?_

"You didn't have to go through someone else for that," I say, trying not to let my fear show. The look he's giving me is terrifying, but I don't want him to know that.

He approaches me, and I decide to stand where I am—I will _not_ back away from him. He grabs my chin, bringing my face closer to his. "I think I did." Without warning my feet are swept from under me, effectively bringing me to my knees. I'm eye level with his crotch—he wants a blowjob.

I start unbuckling his belt. The sooner this is over, the better, but his dick is only half-hard. I throw him a glance as I start stroking him. He takes out a knife from his pocket, putting it on my throat—he must've talked to Cato. "Don't you give me that look, inmate. It's in your best interest that you do a good job."

Trying not to acknowledge his threat, I take him into my mouth. He removes the knife and puts it back in his pocket, getting lost in the moment.

I don't know his preference, so I do the shit that most men seem to like—sucking the head, fondling his balls. I have a feeling I'll soon know exactly what he likes. I don't know for how long I've been sucking his dick, but it doesn't seem to work. So I put my hands on his hips, taking in as much of him as I can. I try not to gag as I look up at him, locking my eyes on his, and finally— _finally_ —he starts bucking his hips.

"Yes. Take my cock, you little cunt," he pants, fucking my mouth. "You've been missing a real man's touch." I _have_ missed a real man's touch, but it's not his. Instead I hum, creating vibrations that I'm sure will bring him even closer.

He grabs my hair, pushing my head faster and harder toward him. I close my eyes shut, trying to stop the tears that are threatening to spill over the brim of my eyes. I hate this. I fucking hate it.

The only thing that keeps me going is that I can feel how close he is. Only a few more seconds and then we're done. He's about to finish when he pulls out, frantically stroking himself.

"Oh, fuck yes," he gasps. A few more pumps and then he spurts his cum on me, mostly my face. "Take it," he exclaims as he strokes himself through his orgasm. It's not the first time someone has come on my face—they do it all the time. I don't say anything, letting him have his seconds of bliss.

He doesn't do anything for a few seconds, coming down from his high. When the waves of his release subsides, he tucks himself back into his pants.

"Clean your face, inmate. You look disgusting." He's no different from the others. My touch is wanted until they come, and then I'm garbage again. I wipe his cum of my face and stand up to leave.

"Where do you think you're going, inmate?" he snarls. I don't know if his addressing me as _inmate_ all the time is a power thing. Maybe it turns him on. Probably both.

"I'm going to my bunk. I owed you. Now I don't," I state. _And I owe Glimmer a fucking beating._

"We're not finished." He needs some time to recover, so I doubt he wants to fuck me too. But right when I'm about to ask what he's talking about, the door opens, revealing Cato and two other guards.

 _Fuck._

"Well, hello there," Cato mocks, one of his characteristic smug smiles on his face. He swipes his thumb across my cheek. "Hawthorne, have you already had your fun?"

"What was I supposed to do?" he smirks. "Besides, she owed me. And from what I've heard, Everdeen always pays her debts."

"She does," Cato sneers, licking the side of my face. "She does."

Four guards against me. I stand no fucking chance whatsoever. Cato and his companions walk into the room, closing the door. I can't do anything but hope they go easy on me—I doubt it. The COs are here for the inmates' protection, but who will guard the guards themselves?

Cato closes the distance between us, his face only an inch from mine. "You assaulted an officer. Now you will pay the price," he seethes. He doesn't care about Peeta— _oh Peeta_ —he's just using this as an excuse to fuck me, but it doesn't make it less real. It doesn't matter the reason—it hurts just as much.

The guards behind Cato grab me by the arms and push me onto a table, face down. I don't have time to react before my hands are cuffed to the legs on either side. I'm completely defenseless in this position, and when they pull my pants off there's nothing I can do. I could try to resist, but I know it's pointless, so I just let them. I will not give them the satisfaction of winning over me.

Cato pushes his groin against me, his erection pressing against my bare ass. He leans over me, his chest flush against my back. His breath against my skin and the reek of his cologne disgust me, but I try not to show it.

"Have you ever taken it in the ass, inmate?" I don't answer him. "It doesn't matter. Soon you will," he hisses in my ear. There is no mistaking the sound of pants unzipping, and then he drags his dick along my ass.

I try to prepare myself for the pain. I will not scream. I will _not_. He will not have the satisfaction of knowing that he's hurting me.

But before he pushes himself in, the door opens, and for some stupid reason I let myself hope that it's someone who's come to rescue me. My heart drops when I hear Hawthorne's words.

"Well, here's the man of the hour."

There's a short intake of breath and a couple of seconds of silence.

"What the fuck is this?" Peeta's voice is strained, and I don't know what's worse—being in this position or Peeta seeing me like this. So vulnerable.

"She needs a lesson in hierarchy. And I think you'd be the perfect teacher. Or at least you can have the first round," Cato explains calmly and slaps my ass—that's going to leave a mark.

No one says anything. Now I know what the worst part is. Peeta will have to rape me right here on the table while these guards watch. There's no way he can talk his way out of this. What little relationship we'd managed to rebuild will be completely destroyed today. Pain I can live with, but Peeta will never recover from doing something like this. And it's my fault. I caused this.

Cato walks around the table so that he's standing in front of me, his dick hanging out for all of us to see. I still can't see Peeta.

"How many inmates have you fucked, Cato?" Peeta asks behind me. He sounds surprisingly calm.

"Too many to count," he answers, a smug look on his face.

"And how many of them follow your rules?" His smile drops, and Peeta walks around the table, his eyes locking on Cato's. Their faces are so close I'm sure they can smell each other's breath. But despite Peeta being shorter, it's Cato who wavers. "Didn't think so," Peeta continues. "You can't fuck them into submission."

"It's the only language they understand."

"No, it's the only language _you_ understand." He pauses. "You've only worked in this prison, right?"

"So?" Cato's confidence falters, and I feel a small satisfaction at his discomfort.

"How do you think we do it in max—where it's not this easy to sneak off for a quick fuck? Making sure they drop the soap?"

Cato doesn't say anything. But I don't think he's angry at Peeta for shutting him up. I've seen his angry face, and that's not it. That's when I notice that Peeta has an insignia on the sleeve of his shirt that Cato doesn't. Peeta outranks him.

"Try to make sure some of your blood rushes to your brain instead of your dick, and I might just tell you," Peeta says calmly, glancing down.

"That still doesn't mean you can't have a little fun," Cato tries to reason, tucking himself back in.

"Oh, I'm planning to. But I won't be getting it up with your ugly faces here. No offense, but I think I prefer this pretty little one here," he says, patting my head. "Now get the fuck out."

The guards behind me huff, but don't say anything. Cato walks toward the door and when he passes me he puts his hand on my ass, squeezing it just enough for it to hurt. "We'll take a raincheck, sweetheart."

This is the first time I see Peeta flinch today, but he manages to remain his composure. As soon as the guards close the door he rushes over to it, locking it and putting a chair against it so that no one from the outside can open it, even with keys.

Without another word he hurries back to my side, unlocking the handcuffs. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

I know that this was all Cato's doing. Peeta could've taken advantage and fucked me and gotten away with it, but he chose not to. He also saved me from a painful and humiliating experience. "This wasn't your fault," I tell him as soon as I pull up my pants.

"I mean about everything. For making you think that I didn't care. I should've try harder to…" He pauses. "I should have reached out to you, but I didn't know how."

"There is a visiting area."

"You have to sign in for that. Besides there are cameras everywhere." He takes a seat on the floor, leaning against the wall.

"So?" I sound impatient, but I've been waiting too long for these answers. I take a seat next to him, but we don't touch. Only an inch separates us, but it feels like a mile.

"What kind of relationship would that have been, Katniss? A meeting once a week, the only touches allowed in the beginning and end of every visit, every phone call and conversation monitored." He exhales. "I'm sorry, but that's not good enough for me."

He's right. That wouldn't be much of a relationship. But what were we supposed to do? And is _this_ good enough for him? We won't be able to have a real relationship in here either if that's his reason for coming here.

"When did you start working as a CO?"

"As soon as I could. I started basic training right after my leg healed. They normally let new recruits start in minimum security prisons, but they were so understaffed that my first job was at a max." That explains why he's already worked at three of them.

"How did you end up here?"

"I've only worked in all-male maximum security. I said I wanted to 'broaden my horizon.' I always intended on ending up here. With you."

Even if that's true, why didn't he let me in on it? "You could've told me."

"How? If I'd come here, people would have known. The wrestling-wimp visiting the psychopathic killer. That would make a great headline," he says dryly.

He's never been one to care what other people think, so I don't understand why that would've stopped him. But how did the media find out about the truth?

Peeta apparently senses my question. "After your trial the teachers and coaches started talking. How they'd suspected but didn't do anything, like they couldn't have. They were crying their eyes out in the newspaper like some fucking martyrs." Peeta clenches his hands into fists in frustration. I instinctively want to cover his hand with mine but refrain.

"They called you a wimp?" I don't know why I ask that—it's not the most pressing issue.

"Yeah." He lets out a humorless chuckle. "I was too much of a wuss to handle Mother myself, so I sent my girlfriend to do my dirty work."

I don't really know what to say. I had no idea how the outside reacted to what happened—I had assumed that no one knew the truth, but apparently everyone did. After the trial, my own mother severed what little bond we still had. She hasn't visited me once, and I don't expect her to. I don't have any other contacts—except Peeta.

"I thought no one knew," I say quietly.

He looks at me, blue eyes locking on gray, and for the first time since he came back, my first emotion isn't anger or betrayal, it's compassion. He's suffered as much as I have.

He's the first one to break eye contact. "Anyway." He drags a hand through his hair. "I focused all my energy on training as soon as I was discharged from the hospital. I didn't talk to the media. I never confirmed or denied any of the rumors. I just wanted everyone and everything to disappear."

I can understand that. He never wanted the abuse to be public knowledge, and suddenly it was plastered all over the news.

"That's why you changed your last name?"

"Partly, yes."

"Then why couldn't you come here?" I ask in frustration. "People wouldn't know it was you."

"They run background checks on all the guards. If anyone ever found out about my past, or if there were records of me being here before, visiting one of the inmates, I would never have been able to start working here. It had to look like we didn't have any type of connection. I couldn't risk it."

I don't say anything, stunned to silence. Ever since he got out of the hospital he's been putting all of his effort into seeing me again. I thought he'd abandoned me, but it was the opposite.

"I know you think I gave up on you. On _us_. But everything I've ever done has been with the intention of ending up here," he says quietly.

"I didn't know."

"Now you do. If you don't ever want to see me again, I'll respect that." He pauses, closing his eyes. "I've never stopped loving you. If you don't believe anything else, believe _that_."

I had been feeling sorry for myself, convincing myself that he deserted me here and that he hated me. I hated him too. It made it easier to cope, to blame someone else and be angry. But he never stopped caring about me. And instead of accepting the situation, he's been doing everything in his power to see me again—for real.

He stands up, straightening his shirt and heading to the door. He won't press me for any answers—he's changed, but some things remain the same. But he can't leave this room thinking that I hate him.

"Peeta?" My voice is weak, but I don't care. No one else can hear me right now. He turns his head when he's about to open the door. "Don't leave."

He looks up to me, a silent question in his eyes. Tears prickle my own. It's been so many years, but it still comes as natural as ever. Loving him. I've never stopped. Closing the distance between us, I let him embrace me. I've spent so much time building walls, and now they crumble to the ground at his touch. In his arms I am free. He breaks the chains.

It's a simple request, but it weighs a million tons, constricting my throat and clouding my mind. "Stay."

His grip tightens. His one-word answer is just as simple, but the impact is unfathomable. "Always."

* * *

 **Author's notes:** I would very much appreciate if you'd leave a comment to let me know what you think. Thank you for reading!


	5. Si vales, valeo

**Author's note:** Caryn! You're such a wonderful friend. Thank you for betaing and for holding my hand during this process!

Trigger warning: Non-consecutive sex.

* * *

His words will probably echo in my mind forever. Peeta's the only one I've ever been able to trust—even when I thought I couldn't. I thought he abandoned me, but it was the opposite. My abandonment was emotional—I gave up on him, and that's worse than what I thought he did to me. I should have known better. I should have known that, if anything, Peeta sticks to his words.

How many times did he tell me that he'd never leave me? That he'd always love me. That he wanted us to be together forever. I heard it, but apparently I wasn't listening.

I don't know how long he holds me. It could be seconds or hours—I can't tell the difference. Only that when he finally releases me, his warmth leaving, I don't ever want to get used to a life without him ever again.

We stay in the room a little while longer, long enough for Cato and the other guards not to get suspicious that we'd done anything other than what they thought we were doing. I even make point of limping a little, in case anyone is watching.

"No guard will ever lay a hand on you again. I'll make sure of that," Peeta promises before we part ways. The corridor is almost empty, so I guess it's almost lights out. I wish I'd had the time to pay Glimmer a visit. She sold me out, and she knows it. I wonder if she knows what that will cost her.

* * *

The horn signaling 6.30 cannot be more welcoming. For the first time in a very long time I allow myself to feel hopeful again. I look forward to seeing Peeta again. Knowing that I have him as an ally makes me less dependent on other guards and inmates. Like Glimmer. But I don't see her at breakfast—she's probably too afraid to show her face. I hope she spent the night fearing today—fearing me.

I don't see Peeta either. He usually overlooks the meals, but I guess he has other duties too.

"Where is Glimmer?" I ask Clove during breakfast.

"I don't know."

"You're in the same cellblock. How can you _not_ know?"

"We're not that close."

Hm? They always come in a pair, so I assumed they were close. But I don't pay that much attention to them because I really don't care. They're assets, and that's it.

I don't see Peeta until lunch, when he's back in the mess hall. Every other inmate in here throws him appreciative glances, so I don't see why I can't too. When his shift ends and he leaves, I quickly get up to leave too, making sure to put the tray where it belongs not to attract any extra attention.

I catch up with him outside the bathrooms. I walk beside him, but I don't look at him.

"Have you seen Glimmer?"

"Who?" he asks in a hushed tone.

Fuck, what's her real name? "Gwen..."

"Matthews?"

"Yeah."

"I oversaw her release this morning," he says casually. "Why?"

 _No, no, no._ "Son of a… That motherfucking… "

Peeta stops, taking a look around before opening a door to an empty office. "What's the matter?" he asks as soon as we're inside and the door is locked.

"She's the one who lured me into that room yesterday."

He drags his hand through his hair. "Fuck, I didn't know, Katniss. I'm sorry." He turns away, not looking me in the eye. I know exactly what he's thinking. I can see it in his slumped posture and hanging head. He thinks he's a failure. His mother's abuse cut deep, and he still hasn't fully healed.

"It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is. You said it yourself. You're here because of me." He sounds defeated, and he still has his back to me.

Fuck, I knew that comment would come back to bite me in the ass. I only said it because I wanted to hurt him—I didn't mean it.

"No. I didn't mean it, Peeta. It was in the heat of the argument." I put my hand on his shoulder, a wave of fire spreading through my arm. We've barely touched since he came here, and I'm not used to it.

He turns around, locking his eyes on the floor. "You wouldn't have said it if the thought never crossed your mind." He's right. I _did_ blame him. I'm about to argue, but he beats me to it. "It's okay, Katniss. I don't blame you."

I can't lie to him, so I leave the past be. "I don't think that _now_."

"What _do_ you think now?" He still doesn't look at me.

"I think that… That I never stopped loving you either."

Finally, he lifts his gaze. We don't need any more words. His lips crash against mine—they're as soft as I remember. His tongue brushes the seam of my mouth, asking for entrance. I eagerly let him in and put both of my hands on his face.

"You have no idea how much I've thought about you," he whispers between kisses. My hands travel down his shoulders and toned arms, unbuckling his belt. He suddenly puts his hand over mine, stopping my movements. "Wait. I want to savor this moment. Let me taste you again."

They way he says it. _Again._ Like this— _me_ —is what he's been living for since we've been separated. All I can do is nod. His mouth is on my neck in no time, kissing the sensitive spot right below my ear. The flick of his tongue on my earlobe sends a jolt right through me, settling between my legs.

"Fuck," is all that escapes my mouth before his lips find mine again. He sucks my bottom lip and presses me gently against the wall, silently asking for permission to give in to his urges. We haven't done this in ages, but it's like it was yesterday. We're in sync, always knowing what the other wants. "Yes."

He moves his hands down to the hem of my sweater. Not wasting any time, he cups my breasts underneath my shirt. He can probably feel my already puckered nipples through the fabric of my sports bra because he hisses at the touch—I do too. He drops down to his knees, lowering his hands to the waistband of my pants. He looks up to me, again asking for permission to proceed. I know he will never do anything that I don't want him to, but he seems more cautious than I remember. So I take his hands in mine, guiding them to my waist and pull down my pants.

He plants kisses along my legs, his hands roaming the outside of my thighs.

"Peeta," I pant. "Touch me," I plead. I need to feel the touch of a man who truly cares about me. I need to feel Peeta.

When his fingers find their way between my legs, slowly stroking me through my soaked panties I know that Peeta is what I've always craved. Even when I thought I hated him, he's always been what I wanted.

"I've dreamed of this for so long," he whispers, kissing my stomach. He probably doesn't know that I will never be able to bear his children. I've never been mother material, but if anyone deserves to be a parent, it's Peeta. I wonder if he'll resent me for it. But I'm too selfish to tell him now, allowing myself to get lost in this moment.

He keeps moving his fingers back and forth, but he doesn't slip his fingers inside. He needs me to say it.

"Peeta, I want to feel you. Only you."

He seems to understand what I'm trying to tell him because he pulls down my cotton underwear. I haven't had the time nor the tools to properly shave, so when he doesn't do or say anything I'm afraid he's repulsed by the fact that I'm not completely bare for him. But when I look down at him, he just stares at me in awe.

"You're so beautiful. You're more perfect than in my wildest dreams," he says, his voice hoarse. Without another word, he licks me along my slit, and my eyes flutter shut. The touch of his soft tongue on me is like a completely new sensation. He doesn't only do it because he's trying to make me come—he does it because he wants it. And that makes all the difference in the world. Without hesitation, he takes my right leg and hoists it up on his shoulder, opening me up for him. He puts his hands on my hips and starts working me with his mouth.

"You taste so good," he says between licks. He alternates between sucking my clit and flicking it with his tongue. If he keeps doing this I won't last long—I already feel that familiar sensation starting to build. But Peeta doesn't want me to finish fast. He stops working my clit and plunges his tongue into me.

"Oh my god," I cry out. At this, he puts his hand on my mouth, stopping his ministrations.

"You can't be too loud. Bite my hand if you have to."

He starts fucking me with his tongue again, sending another rush of pleasure through me, and I have to bite down on his hand not to cry out again. The way he's working me is bringing me so close to release, but he slows down again, licking me with a featherlight touch. It's enough to keep me close to the edge but not completely push me over.

"Peeta," I gasp.

"I'm gonna make this last as long as possible," he growls, sliding his tongue gently around my clit before sucking on it. I have to bite his hand so hard I think I'm drawing blood, but he doesn't seem to mind. His other hand grabs my hip, keeping me from meeting his movements and holding off my orgasm even longer. I'm so sensitive right now I think the slightest touch will probably send me spiraling.

Peeta seems to understand this because he pulls his head back, staring at my center.

"You're so wet, Katniss."

Instead of putting his hands where I want them the most, he skates one of them up my waist, underneath my shirt and bra, carefully rolling my nipples between his fingers. I push my head back against the wall at the sensation. He keeps working my breasts, squeezing and kneading.

"Harder, please." I need to feel him. Completely. I don't care if it hurts—I need to know that this is real. He pinches my nipple harder this time, making me ache for more. Instinctively, I want to cry out his name, but I try to suppress it, biting down on his hand once again.

My clit is throbbing, desperately needing his touch.

He gives me a tentative lick, like it's the first time, and once again I have to suppress my moans, but I can't stop the labored breaths from escaping my mouth. He keeps stroking me with his tongue, and when I instinctively buck my hips, he slows down.

I can't take it anymore. "Peeta, make me come."

At this he starts sucking my clit with such determination that I almost come immediately. But it's only seconds before I'll snap. He doesn't stop, fervently sucking and flicking his tongue. It doesn't take long before it happens, and as I feel the first wave of my orgasm he pushes two of his fingers inside me, deepening and prolonging the feeling.

The intensity is too much to handle. I slam my hands against the wall behind me to have something to hold onto, but there's nothing. Instead, I desperately tug at Peeta's hair as I come around his fingers.

"Ah, fuck!" I don't fucking care if anyone can hear me. It feels too good. Too good to keep quiet. Too good to not let him know what he does to me. Peeta keeps sucking and thrusting his fingers into me until my shaking stops.

He kisses my inner thighs before standing up, his lips and chin glistening from my arousal. I notice the bite marks on his hand and immediately grab it, tracing the wound.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"I've had worse," he shrugs.

I pull my pants back up and sit down on the floor.

"Can I ask you a question?" I ask when my breathing has returned to normal.

"Yeah." He sits down next to me, resting his arms on his knees. "I have to get back soon, though, before anyone misses me."

"What did you mean by what you said to Cato about keeping inmates in check? How do you do it?"

"I wish I could say something like 'treat them like people' or something noble like that." He sounds distant, and he obviously doesn't want to look at me. "I tried that."

"Did you try… fucking them?" I ask carefully.

Finally, he turns his head to me. "No."

It's a relief. I wouldn't blame him if he did, if that was what he had to do. But there's a pang of hurt when picturing him being that intimate someone else—even if it doesn't mean anything. But I have no claim to him. Not anymore. "Did you… fuck anyone else?"

"Are you seriously asking me that question?" he snaps. "You thought I was lying when I told you how I got myself here?"

"No."

Peeta stands up, distancing himself from me. "Then why do you feel the need to ask me that?"

He's avoiding the question. "Why can't _you_ answer the question?"

He holds out both of his arms. "No. I haven't fucked anyone. Happy?"

I _am_ happy about that, but I don't tell him. Instead, I let my old hurt and anger take over and I snap too, taking it out on him.

I push myself up to my feet. "What? You want a medal?" I can't stop the vile words escaping me. I can't say I'm sorry. "I wasn't expecting you to live in celibacy, so don't act like you're some sort of saint. You don't know what it's like to be in here. Being at the mercy of assholes like Cato, thinking that they own you. You don't know what it's like to have to regularly fuck these pieces of shit. Your presence here can't change that— _you_ can't change that. I'm not as good as you. I never will be. So fuck you."

I'm doing it again—the only thing I can do is hurt Peeta, apparently. I couldn't stop it before, and I can't stop it now.

"You think I'm good? I'm the opposite of good, Katniss! I said I didn't fuck anyone else. I never said I always did the right thing."

I close the distance between us. I want to hold him again and say I'm sorry for what I said, but I don't. I don't even reach out to touch him—I don't why. Maybe I'm a heartless monster. "What do you mean?"

He takes a breath, as if preparing himself for what he's about to tell me. "Most of the time it's all about illusion, making the inmates think that you have more power than you do. I can't authorize a search of an inmate's cell, but now everyone here thinks I can. And that's usually enough."

"So you lied," I state. "Everybody lies, Peeta."

He lets out a humorless laugh. "I wish that's the worst thing I have done. For most prisoners it's enough to think you have more power, but sometimes you have to prove it."

"How?"

He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. "There were beatings that I was made aware of. And I didn't do anything to stop them. Just made sure that they saw me watching. If they thought I ordered it, even better. I'm not a saint. I'm a fucking monster." He's quiet a couple of seconds before adding, "Like mother, like son, right?" He's sacrificed so much to be here. He even thinks he's turned into his mother and lost his sense of self in the process.

"No," I say sternly. "You are _not_ like her." I take his hand in mine. He can't think like that—I won't allow it. He might be a lot of things, but he's _not_ his mother's son.

"What's the difference, Katniss?" he asks in defeat. "I might as well have beaten them up myself, using my position to hurt others." He looks down again. "You know what the worst part is? I don't even regret it. _I'm_ the one who should be locked up. I destroy everything I touch."

"No. You can't think like that," I plead. My desperation probably shines through, but I don't care. I loop my arms around his waist, trying to convey whatever strength I have left to him. "You have to stay strong. Don't you see it, Peeta? When you are strong, I am strong."

He sighs into my hair, returning my embrace.

"I'm sorry I snapped."

"No, you were right. It's none of my business." He's put everything on the line for this—for _me_ —and I shouldn't have questioned his commitment.

"There's never been anyone else. Only you," he reassures me.

We stand like that for a couple of seconds. I haven't asked him about what happened when he ended up in the hospital, what caused his mother to lose it like that. Might as well get it over with.

"How much do you remember of that day?" I don't have to specify. He knows.

"Nothing."

Nothing. He remembers _nothing_.

"So you don't know what made her hurt you like that?"

"No. But with her, it could've been anything. Sometimes my presence in the house was enough to set her off."

I'm not surprised, and that makes it even more horrifying. I can't imagine growing up with a parent who hates you with everything that she's got.

He doesn't know that he hit her back. To be honest, I don't know if his mother told me the truth, but it sounds reasonable that something like that could've sent her rage completely out of control. And Peeta would be too ashamed to fight back again. Should I tell him? He's always been afraid of turning into her. Afraid that he might carry that gene. Will he completely break if he ever finds out?

Thankfully, I don't have to make that decision now because Peeta speaks next.

"I have to go. And you have to go to the laundry room." He's right—my shift starts soon.

He leaves first, and then I wait a couple of minutes before exiting the room. I see him during lunch and supper, but we don't talk. There is no need to raise unwanted suspicion about our relationship.

When I arrive back to my cell before lights out someone is sitting in my bed. Mason is nowhere to be seen, and I know there's only one person within these walls who'd have the guts to violate my personal space like that. There is not much privacy in this place, but your bed is yours and no one else's. You don't touch my bed unless you're looking for trouble. But she's the only one who doesn't fear retribution from me. Cashmere. Her long blond hair is in a ponytail, reaching the middle of her back, She probably heard me coming, but keeps her back to me. Instinctively, I look around to make sure none of her "friends" are here.

"Move." She doesn't flinch.

I enter the cell, somehow feeling like a stranger even though I've spent the majority of the last eight years in this small space.

"If your ears don't work I might as well cut them off," I say, approaching her. Since she's sitting down I've got height on my side, so I stand right behind her, towering over her.

At this, she stands up, taking back the leverage. Standing up, she's got several inches over me. She's taller, but I'm faster, and I quickly take out my knife, holding it close enough to her to intimidate, but not to be too obvious of a threat. That's what we've always done. Both of us always skirting that fine line.

"Heard Mellark fucked you," she sneers.

I don't know how that rumor started circulating. I'd heard some whispers during the day, but that's normal. Besides, it's good if they think he fucked me in that room. It wouldn't look good for Peeta if he passed up a chance of getting back at me for what I did. And the more people who think we hate each other, the better.

"I didn't know you were into girl talk." I tap on the bed. "Let's braid each other's hair and have pillow fights," I say sarcastically.

"So did he?" Why does she care so much? She knows I've been with more guards than she can count, so why is Peeta so important?

"He's no different from the rest of them," I lie.

"So that little thing in the mess hall is history?"

And the true nature of her visit reveals itself. She wants to know if he's up for grabs. She must know about Peeta having more authority than the others, otherwise she wouldn't pay me a personal visit—without company.

"You can have him if you want." I do my best to sound disgusted when talking about Peeta, not wanting to let her in on our real relationship.

She huffs at my offer—expected. She's too proud to accept that she has something because I let her. So fucking predictable. She won't approach him now—she's not interested in my sloppy seconds.

Slowly, she walks around me, our eyes locked on each other, making sure the other doesn't try anything. I guess we're too focused on each other to notice the footsteps outside because we're both startled by the voice from the door opening.

"Collins." I recognize his voice anywhere—it's Peeta. What is he doing here? He doesn't think I can handle Cashmere on my own? "What the fuck are doing you here?" He points at her her with his baton, eyes fiery with rage. "You're one small misstep from ending up in the hole. Leave now and maybe I didn't see you."

I send him a glare—I don't need saving.

Cashmere walks over to Peeta, stopping only a couple of inches from him and eyeing him up and down. "I don't do leftovers, but for you I might make an exception." I don't like the way she looks at him, like he's a piece of meat. If this wasn't a prison she'd probably be dry humping him right about now.

But Peeta pretends he doesn't see her advances. "One misstep," he repeats, holding up his index finger for good measure. "I can be very thorough when I search your cellblock," he says slowly.

This seems to get her moving, and she leaves without further ado.

"I could have handled her by myself," I tell him after I make sure no one can hear us.

"I know that. That's not why I'm here." He straightens his shirt. "I'm here to take you to the warden's office."

 _Oh no._

He removes the handcuffs from his belt. "Turn around," he says sternly, but his eyes are full of regret. I do as he says, crossing my hands behind my back. The cold metal of the cuffs feels like ice when he locks them around my wrists.

"You do know why he called me to his office, right?" I whisper. His hand on both of mine tells me that he knows exactly what the warden wants.

"I'm sorry."

I don't know how many times I've been called to the his office, but this is different. I've accepted my role here, but with Peeta escorting me there it feels like I'm ruining him in the process.

The walk is relatively short, but it feels longer now. I concentrate on moving one foot in front of the other while Peeta gently holds the cuffs behind my back, helping me keep my balance.

When we're outside his office Peeta raps his knuckles on the door. "It's Mellark," he announces. "And guest."

"Enter," the familiar voice of warden Thread booms from inside the room. Peeta opens the door, gently nudging me to step inside and he's right behind me. I don't know if I want him here for this, though. The office is cluttered with diplomas randomly strewn across the walls, like someone put it up to only to show them off and for no other reason.

He's sitting by his desk, pretending to write something. Like he's so fucking important.

"Sit down," he commands without looking up. Peeta uncuffs me and directs me to the chair, but remains standing by the door. "I looked through Abernathy's report." He lifts his gaze. "Slipped and fell?" he questions, lifting his eyebrows.

If that's what he wrote, I'm sticking with that. "It _is_ a slippery floor."

"Hm. It is, isn't it?" There's a sense of satisfaction about him—I don't like it. "And we wouldn't want me to slip and accidentally drop your file into the maximum security folder now, would we?" he sneers.

I don't say anything.

"Would we, _inmate_?" he repeats, apparently irritated.

"No," I croak.

"I didn't hear you."

I clear my throat. "No."

"Glad that we're on the same page." He moves the papers on his desk, putting them in a stack to his right. "You can wait outside, Mellark."

"I need to escort her back before lights out."

Thread only waves him off. "Don't worry about that. You can take her back after we're finished here."

"Sir? I thought it was the same routine for _all_ inmates, no exceptions."

"I'm the warden of this fucking prison!" Thread erupts, standing up and pushing his chair against the wall behind him. "What are you? A simple guard. Don't question my authority, boy."

I turn my head around, facing Peeta and give him a subtle nod, silently telling him that it's okay.

He tries to put up a professional facade, doing his best not to crack at the knowledge of what the warden intends to do. At what has already happened so many times. His eyes quickly avert to mine, begging for forgiveness. Forgiveness that he shouldn't feel the need to ask for. This is not on him. This is on me. I chose this. This is what I have become.

My discreet nod to him convinces him to accept that it's okay for him to leave. I _want_ him to leave. Seeing my pain reflected in his eyes would be too much for me too handle. I'd rather suffer alone. He sends me a glance before leaving the room.

As soon as the door closes I stand up and walk over to the other side of the desk, doing my best not to meet Thread's gaze. I'm about to bend over the table, but he pushes me over before I get a chance. Without hesitation he pulls my pants down.

"You've been a bad girl," he growls, dragging a whip against my ass. Fortunately, Thread is one of those who always uses a condom. He doesn't want a repeat of what happened seven years ago.

Thankfully, he finishes fast. But my main concern isn't the time or my own well-being. It's the fact that Peeta probably heard the whole thing. Thread is fast, but vocal, and his thrusts caused the desk to scrape against the wooden floor, creating loud noises.

He barely has the time to pull out before he tells me to leave. I'm trash again, easily disposed of. I open the door, and as expected, Peeta's there. His hands are balled into fists, and his jaw is clenched. He knows exactly what happened in there. I put my hands behind my back, and he cuffs me again. His hands barely touch mine, but it's enough to make me feel safe again, knowing that he's here.

"I'll kill him," he mutters while he guides me back to my cell. "I'll fucking kill him myself."

"Peeta." I want to throw my arms around him, letting him know that I'll be okay. But the chains around my wrists and the fact that we're in this fucking place make that impossible.

"What?" he snaps, but it's not because of me. He's angry about the situation.

"What did you expect?"

He lets out a long sigh but doesn't answer. He _did_ expect this. He knows exactly how it goes. Since it's already past lights out the corridors are empty, enabling us to speak more freely. "This is how it works. You can't protect me, no matter how hard you try." With so much experience in max, this can't come as a surprise to him.

"I know."

"If it's too much for you, maybe it's better for you to leave." It pains me to say the words, but he can't change the way things are in here, and I hate to see him ruined because of it. There's no way we'll be able to have any sort of relationship anyway. We'll get caught eventually.

When we get to a crossing hallway where we usually turn right, he directs me to the left. Away from the surveillance cameras, he puts his hands on my arms, turning me around. "I _am_ leaving."

Horror and relief wash through me. He won't be spending more time in this hell-hole, but I'm selfish enough to want to have him near me, if only for the subtle glances and the delicate touch of his fingers.

He swallows hard, his eyes piercing through mine. "And I'm taking you with me."

* * *

 **Author's note:** As always, I love to hear your thoughts. You can also drop me a line on tumblr (maxwellandlovelace).


	6. Mulgere Hircum

**Author's note:** Thank you, papofglencoe for your wisdom, support, friendship, and amazing betaing skills.

Trigger warning: Graphic depictions of violence.

* * *

I don't register his words immediately, and I don't know how to respond.

"Peeta. We're in prison. I can't just walk out the door." I feel dumb for pointing out the obvious, but I want to make sure he's talking about what I think he's talking about.

"Listen," he says, putting his hand on the wall behind me, his face inches from mine. "Do you think I'm happy with this?" He makes a motion with his hands, gesturing to the surroundings.

I know he isn't—I'm not either. But what did he expect? Maybe he didn't think that I could do the things I have had to do in here, half of which I don't even think he knows about.

"No."

"I don't want it to be like this. In here. I want you. _All_ of you. I meant what I said earlier. This is not good enough."

This is not good enough for me either. But is breaking out the answer? Besides, what would we do if we somehow managed to escape? People would be looking for us. Do I want to live like that, always looking over my shoulder? Does Peeta?

But I don't want to voice those thoughts to him right now because I'm afraid he'll take them the wrong way—that I don't want him. I _do_ want him, but I've built a life for myself here.

I don't know what to say to him. I'm at a loss for words, as I always seem to be around him. "It's impossible," I manage to get out. "You're talking about breaking out." I only mouth the last words, afraid that someone or something will pick it up.

"Katniss. You don't deserve to be here. It kills me knowing that you wouldn't have been here if you hadn't met me." He blames himself for this. _Of course he does._ He grazes the skin underneath my eye with his thumb, cupping my cheek. "Tell me. What do you miss the most?"

I answer without hesitation. "The stars." We're only allowed outside during the day and there's no window in my cell. I miss being able to stargaze in the woods where there's barely any artificial light. The miniscule living quarters, the food, the company I can live with, but I miss nature, being outside without restrictions or fences.

"Then will you let me bring you to them again? Please." His voice is so tender, so soft, that it fills me with a sense of security—and I want more of it.

 _Are we actually considering escaping?_

Peeta's hand is still on my cheek, and I lean into it. A warm sensation spreads throughout my body at his gentle touch. But I can't allow myself to dream. I'll only be disappointed when I wake up to the real world. "Peeta. Even if I agree to this, this is prison. There are alarms, guards, fences…"

A subtle smirk mixed with pride spreads on his lips. "What do you think I've been doing for the past eight years?"

* * *

I can't sleep. When Peeta dropped me off in my cell, Mason was already asleep. Or she pretended to be—I can't tell the difference, and I don't care.

Of course I want to leave, but I'm not sure life as a fugitive is what I want. That's what I will be, and Peeta will be a wanted man. I don't want him to suffer anymore—especially not because of me. The alternative is to wait until my sentence ends, but that won't be anytime soon. I've probably got another ten years in here—at least. And, in a way, having Peeta right under my nose without being able to touch him whenever I want is more torturous than constantly being physically and mentally abused. That's it's own form of torment.

Peeta's apparently put a great deal of effort into this, and I don't want to let him down. But I can't make this decision lightly—he can't expect me to.

Sleep never comes, but when we get up at 6:30 I'm surprisingly alert. When I get to the mess hall, though, there's an atmosphere that I'm not comfortable with. Eyes linger on me longer than they should if they know what's best for them. More heads than usual pop up when I enter, and it feels strange. I'm used to getting people's attention, but this is different. It's not fear on their faces—it's curiosity. Were they somehow privy to my conversation with Peeta? No, no one could hear us.

That's when I see her. _Cashmere._ The meals are scheduled, and her times normally don't coincide with mine. It's not uncommon for us to be in here at the same time, but it's not the fact that she's here that causes me to waver. Clove is sitting next to her. _Fucking traitor._ That's why these bitches are staring at me. They want to know how I will react to this.

She must have known about Glimmer's deception, otherwise this a huge fucking coincidence. The smug smirk on her face when she meets my eyes leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but I try not to show my disgust. How much has she told Cashmere about me? How much _does_ Clove know? I try to wrack my brain and sort through if I've ever said anything personal to her. I don't think so—I've never confided in anyone, not even Abernathy, who's bound by law to keep his mouth shut.

Leaving the line, I walk up to their table. She will know that this will cost her, one way or another. "I thought you said you didn't do leftovers," I say to Cashmere. I don't acknowledge Clove, knowing that she craves attention.

Cashmere puts her hand on Clove's cheek, locking her eyes on me. "Clove here isn't leftover." Clove stretches her back—she's so desperately in need of validation that it's almost painful to watch. Almost. "One of your own made a fool of you. You are _weak_ , and people don't want to associate themselves with weaklings."

I want to punch her face, if only to wipe that fucking smile off of it. But I can't. This is not the time nor the place. It would only get me sent back to the hole.

Instead, I shift my focus to Clove, temporarily giving her some much needed attention. "You will regret this," I say matter-of-factly, turning around to leave.

On my way back to the line something hits my back. "Your threats are empty," Cashmere yells after me. Now we've got everyone's attention, including the guards. It takes everything in me to not throw myself at her and shutting her up the way I want to, and I say a silent prayer that Peeta doesn't intervene now. That would only give Cashmere's words merit, weakening my position further. Subtly, I try to send him a glance, hoping that he'll understand. He's still standing by his post, his hand on his baton, ready to engage if he has to. But he seems to understand what I'm trying to say. Or he's figured it out on his own.

There's really nothing much I can do right now. She wants me to lash out, but that will only give her what she wants. But if I don't do anything it'll look like she's won. Neither of those options are good. By the looks of it, the entire mess hall knows how I got played. I have to somehow stand my ground and show them that I'm no pussy. I do the only thing I can think of. It's suicide maybe. I give her the middle finger—it's very common. But then I curl it around my index finger—not so common. It means 'I hate you.' It means 'I loathe you.' It means that we will meet again and then we will settle our differences. And there will only be one victor—one way or the other.

The sign is a well-kept secret from the guards, so they'll only see one inmate flipping the other off, missing the secondary meaning.

Of course she takes the bait. She can't resist the challenge or the possibility to get rid of me. I don't blame her—I feel the same way. Her smile is wicked as she gives me a subtle nod, accepting the invitation.

* * *

"Everdeen," Peeta barks from the cell door. "You're wanted in the warden's office."

"Oooh, someone's in trouble," Mason quips.

"Shut the fuck up," Peeta cuts her off immediately. He's pissed.

When I walk toward him he doesn't look me in the eye before I turn around for him to lock my hands together. His touch is almost rough, and he's breathing heavily. _What's happened?_

When he closes the door to the cellblock we're alone in the hallway between the actual prison and the offices. There are cameras, but they don't pick up sound. But this is not the shortest way to the warden's office. "What's going on?"

"Not here," is the only response I get, his tone terse. Neither of us speaks again until he opens the door to an empty office and uncuffs me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he growls as soon as I turn around to face him.

"What do you mean?" Those beautiful blue eyes pierce a hole through my brain.

"Don't patronize me, Katniss. Why are you challenging Cashmere to a fight?" _Oh._ I should have known.

"What was I supposed to do, Peeta?" I throw out my arms, his anger rubbing off on me.

"You could have walked away."

"I couldn't do that. You know how it works. If I had left I'd have no power whatsoever in here. No one would respect me, and that would be the end. Now, I at least have a chance."

"And the price if you lose could very well be your life. It'll be on my watch. What do you expect me to do, just stand there and look?" His jaw clenches, and his hands ball into fists.

"Why not? You've done it before," I snap.

Silence.

I crossed the line. I know I did. He doesn't answer, only locks his eyes on me. His stare is intense and I almost buckle under it. I have to stop taking everything out on him. "I didn't mean it like that." I reach out to him, but he backs away. It hurts more than I want to admit.

"Of course you meant it," he spits.

"Fine, I did. But what's the difference, Peeta?" I try to reason with him. He's acting like he came here thinking he didn't need to get his hands dirty. "This is prison. You of all people know how it works."

"It doesn't mean I enjoy it." He's calmed down a little, but he's still angry. "And you don't get to decide what I do, or how I do it."

I put my hands on his cheek, but he doesn't acknowledge my touch. He's still upset. "I know. But I need your help with this."

"How?" He moves my hand from his face, not meeting my eyes. "What do you want from me, Katniss?"

"I don't know."

* * *

The next couple of days I barely speak to Peeta—he seems busy, always on his way to something, and he never seeks me out. But I don't miss how Cashmere's always linger on him. Did she change her mind about 'leftovers?' I don't have to worry about that. I trust Peeta. I _have_ to.

He's not meeting my gaze anymore, not like he did when he first arrived here, when I could feel his eyes on me every time we were in the same room. Now he seems more set on doing his actual job than I would want him to. I've spent such a long time in here without him, but now I miss him more than I ever have. He was right—the only way for us to truly be together is to somehow leave this place. And now he acts like he doesn't even want that. It hurts like hell.

Since Glimmer's gone and Clove's with Cashmere, I eat by myself. I'm fine with that. I don't want, or need, anyone's company. It's actually an odd sort of relief not to hear their cackling all the time.

"Hey," a tender voice says from the opposite side of the table.

"Leave," I say, not raising my gaze from the food. I don't want to chit-chat, but she sits down anyway. I lift my head, exhaling loudly. "You deaf?"

"No," she says carefully. "I have information."

"Yeah, everyone does," I try to blow her off. Bitches often come up to me with "information." It's usually vague or something I already know.

"It's about Collins. I think she's trying to rig the fight."

"Of course she does. It's her M.O." I look up at her. She's the one I gave the meth to a couple of weeks ago. "That's it?"

"I've just noticed that she's been talking a lot to Mellark this past week. With him being the superior guard and all, I just thought—"

"Yeah, you _thought_. Your theories don't interest me." For all I know it's Cashmere who sent her here. I have no way of knowing if she's telling the truth or feeding me Cashmere's lies. She doesn't take the hint, so I slam my fist on the table, catching the attention of some inmates around us. "So split."

When she goes back to her place I catch Peeta out of the corner of my eye. He's leaving, and only seconds after Cashmere leaves too. That can't be a coincidence.

If they're in need of privacy I know exactly where they are. I find them in the small hidden corridor where Peeta took me. Their voices are hushed and I can't see them, but I can make out what they are saying.

"You want to get rid of her, don't you? She humiliated you in front of everyone. I'd never do that," Cashmere says.

"I know."

"Then help me with this. Don't back down now." I can practically see her fingers sliding up his arm, and I hate her for it.

There's a couple of seconds of silence before Peeta answers quietly. "Okay."

* * *

During dinner I manage to sneak away a plastic knife from the mess hall. It's not that difficult, and I at least have some of the guards still on my side. As it is now the knife can't do much harm, but I can carve it, making it pretty lethal if it hits the right place. Since I was the one to challenge Cashmere, she choses the weapons—there are plenty within these walls and they're not that difficult to steal. She chose no weapons.

"You think you're gonna win?" Mason asks. Of course she knows about the fight. She has ears fucking everywhere. Most inmates don't know when or where the fight will take place—the more that know, the bigger the risk of the guards finding out and stopping it.

I don't answer her because I don't think I'll win. Going head to head with Cashmere is terrifying—she's taller and more muscular. And during my 'inauguration' she threw the hardest punches. Maybe my plastic knife will make us even.

 _No, it won't._

After dinner, but before lights out, is the best time. Many of the guards' shifts end soon, and they're tired after the day, making them less likely to intervene even if they suspect something is up. _Lazy fucks._ I tuck the makeshift knife inside my braid, trying to conceal it with my hair the best I can.

When I meet Cashmere in the hallway between the cells, she's not alone—Clove and two of her other lackeys flank her.

"Really? You don't fight your own battles?" I taunt, trying to get a rise out of her.

"You wouldn't either if you had anyone left," she responds quickly, not missing a beat.

"Bathrooms," I say. Since Cashmere chose the weapon, I decide the place. The bathrooms have more furniture that you can accidentally hit your head on. I won't be winning this fight by raw force, so I have to rely on some luck.

When we get there, Cashmere takes a look around. "I don't like this. There's too much preventing a fair fight." _Like she knows anything or cares about what's fair._

"It's not your choice to make," I say, trying to stand my ground, but I'm outnumbered.

"It's supposed to be fair," she points out.

"I don't care what you think is fucking fair. You choose the weapon, I choose the place."

A satisfied smirk spreads on her lips, like she's been waiting for something. "So you didn't bring anything with you?"

I don't know what she's playing at. "No."

"Prove it."

I unbutton my shirt and slide it off my arms, tossing it on the floor. Loosening the drawstring of my pants I peel them off my legs and pile them on top of the shirt. She gives me a look, clearly not satisfied. I remove my top and cotton underwear too, leaving me completely naked in front of her. I have no problem with nudity, but I feel pretty exposed here like this.

"Your turn."

She does the same and we search each other's clothes. She doesn't have any weapons, and they don't find anything either. When we put our clothes back on I don't miss her toned arms and well-defined abs. _This is going to hurt._

"Let's stop messing around and just do it here," I say, my voice raised. "Let there be some fucking pretense of honor."

"You seem very eager," Cashmere sneers, looking awfully pleased with herself. Like she knows something I don't.

"Just as eager as you are to make sure I'm clean. Are you sure you don't want to look up my pussy too?"

"Pass." She gives Clove a nod who walks up to me, a devilish grin on her lips. Then she yanks my braid. I try to swat her hand away but I'm too slow.

"Well, what do we have here?" she snickers, unweaving my braid and taking the plastic knife. She walks back to Cashmere and gives it to her.

"Mellark saw you take this before leaving dinner," she says, sliding it between her fingers.

I jerk my head up in surprise, a look of betrayal and hurt probably evident on my face. There's a lump in my throat at the mere thought of him ratting me out. To _her_ of all people.

Cashmere continues. "Just because he fucked you doesn't mean he's forgotten what you did. He's not as simple-minded as Cato or Hawthorne."

"Piece of shit," I curse under my breath.

"Okay, now that that's settled, let's move on shall we?" She's very chipper about all of this.

I have no choice but to follow. Now she's chosen both place and weapon, giving her an even bigger advantage than before. We end up in the TV room, and I can understand why. It's easy to clear—we only have to move the chairs and tables, leaving a large, empty area.

The rules are simple. We'll continue until either one of us yields or dies. But knowing how stubborn Cashmere is, she will not yield. Neither will I.

I take the table closest to the door, move it to the side, and turn it around. When I'm done, the others have already cleared the rest of the room.

I'm not prepared when the first hit comes. Cashmere's fist connects with my nose, and I stumble backward, almost falling, but I manage to stand my ground. I dry my nose on my sleeve, soaking it in blood.

I swing my arm against her, trying to get a hit, but she evades me every time. I get in a few punches, but nothing severe, only hitting soft tissue. Instead, she lands another hit right on my mouth and I can taste the blood now. _It hurts like a motherfucker._

I don't have time to recover because she takes the collar of my shirt, dragging me toward the middle of the room and hauling me into the brick wall. I try to brace the impact with my hands, hearing what I think are bones breaking when my arm gets squashed between the wall and the rest of my body, and I collapse on the floor. But I'm so hyped on adrenaline now that I barely feel it.

Before she attacks me again I steal a quick glance at the clock. _Wear her out._ When Cashmere comes at me again I throw up my foot, hoping that it'll hit her stomach. It does, and she loses her breath temporarily. I take the opportunity to hit her right on the nose, and I feel it breaking under my knuckles.

"Not so pretty anymore," I taunt. This causes her to let out an animalistic scream, and she charges at me with all the force she's got. But I'm quick and throw out my leg, tripping her, and she crashes into the wall face-first. With our ragged hair, blood-covered faces, and feral eyes we probably look like Carrie's deranged sisters.

I might be quicker, but her stamina is better. I can't keep at this for much longer—my heaving chest makes that pretty obvious. And now I've pissed her off even more. I have to win this—now.

But Cashmere grabs me by the sleeve and tries to throw me against the wall again. I manage to put my foot down and steer us in another direction, and I land on a table next to the door. _That's gonna leave bruises._ Cashmere's on top of me, turning me over so that she's straddling me, effectively pinning me down. She takes hold of my injured arm. Hard. I scream out, and I think I'm going to pass out from the pain.

"Give up, bitch," she snarls, the blood from her nose dripping down on me.

"No," I growl.

In the corner of my eye I see the door open, and it takes everything in me to wrench my right arm free from under Cashmere. I throw it backward, feeling the underside of the table until I find it. It only takes a second, but that's all I need. I yank the knife free, pull it over my head and stab her in the gut. Warm blood covers my hand as I press the knife in as far as I can.

There is pain, but mostly shock in her eyes when she realizes what's happening. A silent moan leaves her lips as I release the knife and push her off me. Peeta catches her, putting her on the floor, and her eyes widen when she recognizes him. There's a pool of blood growing underneath her, and even if she survives this she'll spend weeks in the infirmary. Clove and friends have already left—they probably fled as soon as they saw Peeta. _So that's how far their loyalty goes._

"P… Pe…" Cashmere stutters.

Peeta sits next to her, grabbing the knife still in her stomach. He looks her right in the eye, twisting it, and a groan of pain leaves Cashmere's mouth. He twists the knife again before pulling it out, a subtle smile on his lips. He slowly wipes the sides of the blood-covered knife on her cheeks before handing it to me, not breaking eye contact with her. "So you gained a few friends. I've got friends too." His voice is so dark. Cold. Sinister. It stirs something inside me that I can't quite describe.

"Pl… please…" she coughs.

"I heard about how you welcome people in here. Consider this your going away party," he says. She knows exactly what he's talking about. When I told Peeta what happened when I first arrived here he got furious, and he hates her as much as I do. Probably more.

Being here was _our_ plan. It was _Peeta_ who suggested it to her because of the lack of cameras, and _he_ left the knife here for me. I knew they would find the plastic knife on me—she's not stupid—and by getting us here she thought she had the upper hand. And that was her downfall.

I pull my blood-soaked shirt over my head and dry my face with it. I can't stay here—Peeta has to call for back-up. Seeing him like this, doing all this for me, makes me love him more than I think I ever have.

"You have to go," he whispers.

"I know." I put my hand on the side of his face, and he leans into my touch. My fingers leave a streak of blood on his cheek, and I kiss him there, licking it off.

I don't care that Cashmere sees. No one is going to believe her anyway. When Peeta says that _she_ attacked _him_ with a knife, it's only going to seem like a desperate attempt from her to get off the hook. Especially considering that I hit him openly not so long ago.

I quickly leave the room and find the nearest bathroom to wash off. I don't care if any of the inmates see me like this, but I don't want the guards to have any suspicion I was in a fight, possibly undermining Peeta's story. I manage to avoid any COs on my way to the bathrooms, and when I'm back in my cell I change to a clean set of clothes that I stole from the laundry room.

"Where's Cashmere?" Mason asks.

"I don't know. She was a no-show," I lie. I don't care if she believes it or not. She's not a snitch anyway.

* * *

I don't see Peeta for several days. He's probably being questioned about what happened with Cashmere, and during the investigation he won't be working here. I hear rumors about what happened, though. The consensus of it seems to be that Cashmere attacked Peeta for an unknown reason and now she's in the infirmary, recovering, before being sent off to max. _Good._

There are also some less frequent rumors among the inmates that it was a result of the fight with me. I don't mind.

When I finally do see Peeta I want to run into his arms like some cheesy romance novel, but I refrain myself. He's back in the mess hall, which must mean that they believed his story.

It takes another day before we have a chance to be alone. During a break in one of my shifts at the laundry room we manage to sneak off to one of the closets. He doesn't waste any time. As soon as the door is closed, his hands frame my face, and he kisses me. Hard. I open my mouth, his tongue slipping in, and we feed off each other's hunger.

"Tell me what happened," I say after we break apart, trying to catch my breath.

"They swallowed it. Hook, line and sinker."

"Really?" I can't believe everything went off without a hitch.

"Yeah, they really didn't investigate it that deep. They just seemed relieved that someone provided them with a plausible explanation for what happened and went with it." _Finally, the lack of regard for inmates works in my advantage._

"And Cashmere?"

"Infirmary. She lost a lot of blood and will stay there for about a week. And then she's off to max."

This wouldn't be possible without Peeta. If it weren't for him I'd probably be back at the bottom of the food chain, cleaning toilets and getting regularly beaten. He's devoted his life to this. To _me._

"How much time do we have?"

He looks at his wristwatch. "I've got fifteen minutes, but you need to be back in five."

"Good." I crush my lips against his. "Fuck me."

"Now?"

"Yes, I've waited long enough. I'm tired of the other shitheads. I want you."

He returns my kiss with eagerness and takes hold of my legs as I lock them around his waist. He pushes his hand under my shirt, kneading my breast, and I groan into his mouth. At this, he thrusts his hips into me, allowing me to feel his cock pushing against my pussy. I'm already wet, and he hits just right.

Knowing that we don't have much time, he releases my breast and shoves his hands down my pants, rubbing me a few times before I lower my legs and he pulls down my pants and underwear.

"You have a condom?"

"Yeah." I unbuckle his utility belt as he reaches into his back pocket. My fingers work fast and I release him from his boxers before he tears the wrapper to the condom. We don't have much time but I _need_ to taste him. I drop to my knees and instantly start sucking the head. He tastes so good, a bit salty mixed with something that is so Peeta. Just like I remember it. "Oh my god," he growls at my initiative.

I let him go and he swiftly rolls the condom on, grabbing my legs so that I lock them around him again. Without hesitation he pushes himself inside. I have missed this. I have missed _him_. For the first time in almost a decade, this doesn't hurt. I kiss his lips to prevent the sob that threatens to escape my mouth, but I can't stop a tear rolling down my cheek. Peeta's eyes are closed so he doesn't see it. I'm glad he doesn't.

He still hasn't moved, like he's relishing this moment as much as I do. "Do you have any fucking idea how many times I've dreamt about this?" he groans, showering my neck in open-mouthed kisses. I lock my arms around his neck to spur him on, and when his tongue reaches that spot below my ear, I instinctively buck my hips. He meets it with a thrust of his own, and it's not long before he drives himself into me with more force and speed.

I thrive on his lustful grunts, and there's a burning sensation in me that starts to build. "Peeta…" is all that escapes me when I feel how close I am. He moves his hand and starts rubbing my clit, and I know that's it for me. With one more snap of his hips the fire I've been containing for so long finally spreads throughout my entire body, out to the tips of my fingers. When I come, my walls contract around him, pushing him further to his release, and it's only seconds before he comes too. His movements become more erratic as he spills into the condom.

He puts his forehead on my shoulder after we've come back to our senses, his warm breath on my skin. He stays inside me for a little while before pulling out, and I miss him already. I make my decision, but I somehow know that this would have happened anyway.

It only takes a minute before we're both fully dressed, but his cheeks are still flushed. "Peeta." I wrap my arms around him, and he returns my embrace. "I don't want this either." He stiffens at my words, maybe misunderstanding what I'm trying to say. "I mean… This is not good enough for me either. I want to be with you. Fully."

"What are you saying?" he asks carefully.

"I want to leave."

* * *

 **Author's note:** Please drop me a line and tell me what you think. I love to read your thoughts.


	7. Fiat justitia

**Author's note:** Eternal love and gratitude to papofglencoe, not only for being an amazing beta but for your support and friendship!

* * *

Peeta silently looks at me in disbelief. His jaw is slack, and there's a question in his squinting eyes. Is he wavering in his decision? He must have realized what a monster I've become—retaliating against Cashmere without a second thought or any regard for her. We could probably have gotten rid of her without using violence, but I'd wanted her to suffer, to feel the pain that I felt. I'm sure he's finally figured out how many guards I'd have had to fuck and suck off, and it's too much for him.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, but apparently changes his mind. I want to say something, reassuring him that whatever I've done in here has been out of necessity, not desire. But he doesn't give me a chance to react. His mouth is on mine again, sucking my bottom lip, and I eagerly meet his tongue as it probes for entrance. The heat from where we are connected spreads through me, and I feel myself getting wet for him again. But I can't let myself get carried away.

I break the kiss. "I have to get back."

"Yeah," he croaks, sliding his thumb across my bottom lip, getting rid of the evidence of our kiss. "Katniss," he speaks, before I open the door. "Are you sure?" He's not unsure about his own decision—he's making sure I want this too.

"Yes." I had made peace with myself about being here for a long time. But Peeta's opened the door for me, showing me that I can have more. More than this.

I have to get back to the laundry room. I can't risk anyone missing me and finding me here with Peeta. I press my lips against his in what I hope is a reassuring kiss. "I promise. I want this. I want _you_ ," I tell him before leaving the room.

* * *

"Fuck, yes! More!"

He's kept me on the edge for too long. I need to come _now_. I desperately grasp his hair, trying to make him do something. _Anything_. He knows how close I am, but seems unfazed by it, not changing the speed or the pressure of his tongue. Peeta's on his knees, with my right leg resting on his shoulder. I frantically buck my hips against his face, trying to get some pressure to push me over the edge.

Then he stops, and I can't hold back the groan of disappointment leaving my mouth. He raises his head, looking up at me. His lips and nose glisten from my arousal, making him so sexy that I would kiss him on the spot if I wasn't so close. He replaces his tongue with his thumb, making an agonizingly slow circular motion around my clit without touching it. "How badly do you want this, Katniss?" he purrs. My name rolling off his tongue like that is the sexiest thing I know.

"Please, Peeta." I don't care that I sound desperate and pathetic. I'd do anything for this man.

"Say it," he whispers, licking the inside of my thigh. His tongue is warm and wet, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

"I'm yours, Peeta. Only yours," I pant, knowing that this is what he wants to hear and hoping it will make him continue what he was doing.

At my words, he returns to his task, fervently sucking my clit, and my head falls back, hitting the wall behind me. It's like I'm on autopilot, grabbing the metal shelves above me as I start to rock my hips again. Peeta snakes one of his hands up under my shirt, stroking my nipples through the fabric of my bra.

"Fuck, I'm gonna..." After that, everything is pure bliss. My orgasm washes over me as Peeta continues to work both my clit and nipples. Exactly the way I want, licking and sucking until I've stopped shuddering. He wastes no time and stands up, pushing his tongue into my mouth, and I taste myself on his tongue and lips. It only turns me on even more. I want more.

"Do you know how many times I've jerked off imagining you saying that?" He presses his hips against mine as if to prove his point, letting me feel how hard he is. "Exactly like that."

His admission only adds to my arousal, even if I just came. That he thought of _me_ while bringing himself to completion. I can't help picturing him stroking himself, making those beautiful sounds of lust and pleasure when he comes.

I'm filled with an eagerness to please him, so I drop to my knees, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. I lick him through his underwear, and he groans at the contact. I impatiently push his pants and boxers down his hips and immediately take him in my mouth without breaking eye contact.

"Tell me," I say as I release him.

"The thought of your sounds, your smell, your taste… It always does it for me," he says, his voice hoarse, panting. I lick the underside of his cock and suck the head when I reach it. "Oh fuck, that feels so good."

 _His_ sounds. _His_ smell. _His_ taste. Everything about him is perfection. I grab him at the base and suck him off with more determination. When he gets closer to his release I let him go and fish out a condom from the pocket of his pants that are now pooled around his ankles. Tearing the wrapper I put it on him and give him a few extra strokes before rising again.

Before I get the chance to kiss him he turns me around and starts sucking the side of my neck while squeezing my nipples. Hard. "Bend over," he growls in my ear.

The way he says it, demands it, makes me weak in the knees, and I have no choice but to obey him. I'm on my hands and knees on a wooden bench and Peeta wastes no time plunging into me. His hands are on my hips, pulling me against him. It doesn't take long for us to find a fast pace. His powerful thrusts cause my knees to scratch against the boards underneath me, but I don't care. This feels so fucking good, and I already feel myself closing in on another orgasm.

He's close too. "Peeta, I want to see you." He stills his movements, and I take the opportunity to quickly turn around. His cheeks are flustered and he's out of breath. I'm still on all fours when I roll the condom off him and start sucking him off again.

"Fuck, Katniss." His head falls back, and his hands find my hair, guiding me. He's rock hard, but the skin is smooth, allowing me to feel every ridge with my tongue. I grab his hips, pushing him in a little more, and I can feel how close he is. It's only a couple of seconds before he comes. The warm liquid fills my mouth as my name falls from his lips. He tastes exactly like I remember. I love it.

After I've made sure to swallow everything, I rise and kiss him full on the mouth. I'm sure he can taste himself, but he doesn't seem bothered by it.

"You didn't finish," he says as we break apart.

"It doesn't matter," I say, trying to shrug it off.

Instead of answering, he moves his hand to the juncture of my thighs, threading his fingers through my folds. "It matters," he whispers in my ear as he strokes my clit before slipping two of his fingers inside. He extracts them before pushing them back in. He has such an effect on me—everything he does to me feels so good, and I can't help but cry out as he pushes me closer again.

My legs give out, and Peeta supports my weight with one of his arms. His ministrations soon send me spiraling to the point of no return, and he covers my lips in his as I come around his fingers. I've missed this.

Peeta knows the blueprints of this compound, allowing him to find a spot where we can go unnoticed and not have to worry about the sounds we make, and he knows how to sneak off unnoticed.

"Listen," he says, securing his utility belt around his waist. He hesitates before continuing. "Despite this place being the worst run-prison I've ever seen, it's well-monitored. And the guards outside carry some heavy rifles."

"What are you saying?"

 _Where is he going with this?_

He doesn't meet my eyes. "I think our best chance is from the administrative building. The security there is not as heavy, and no one would suspect it." His voice is clinical, like he's reciting a recipe.

I've only been in that building for one reason. "So how do we get there?"

Finally, he lifts his gaze, looking me in the eye. He doesn't answer, confirming my suspicions. I can't believe it. The only way to get out of here is through the warden. Not only have I been forced to sleep, suck, and lick my way to the top here—now I have to fuck my way out of here too?

"You want me to fuck Thread?!"

"You know I don't," he answers immediately. "And if everything works out, you won't have to."

Of course he doesn't _want_ me anywhere near Thread. I saw how angry and hurt he got when I was there last time. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry about it," he reassures me, opening his arms for me. His hands travel up and down my back, and I revel in the little time we can spend like this. Alone.

"It's just… I hate him so much. When Cashmere beat the hell out of me he let it slide and…" I bury my face in his shirt so I don't have to face him.

"And what?" he asks carefully.

I haven't told Peeta about the abortion. It's still difficult to talk about, especially with him. He puts his finger underneath my chin, nudging me to raise my head.

"Katniss. Tell me what he did." He's so sincere that I can't brush it off.

"I got pregnant," I croak, but he probably can't hear it.

"What?"

I clear my throat. "I got pregnant," I repeat. Peeta's eyes widen in shock, but I continue before he says anything. "I don't know whose it was. It could've been Cato's or anyone else's." I pause. "I guess it didn't look good, so he decided to get rid of it."

He hugs me tight, pressing my head against his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he whispers, rocking me back and forth. "I should have been here. I should have..." he trails off, choking a sob.

He thinks this is on him—that he somehow could have stopped it. There's nothing he could've done, but he still blames himself. The next part will probably shake him to his core, but he needs to know. "There's more."

He doesn't say anything, only keeps hugging me.

"I can't..." _How do I break his heart?_ "I can't get pregnant again," I whisper. He releases me from his embrace, putting his hands on my cheeks and searching my eyes. I can't quite read his. Is he angry? Hurt? Sad?

I don't know how long we stand there, looking at each other before Peeta drops to his knees, pressing his face to my stomach. "I'm so sorry, Katniss. Please forgive me," he pleads. "It's my fault. I should have stood up for myself so you didn't have to. She was right. I'm a pussy."

I can't stand him begging for forgiveness for things he couldn't do anything about. I drop to my knees too so that I'm eye level with him, but he won't look at me. "Peeta." His eyes are still locked on the floor. I cradle his head in my hands. "Peeta," I repeat. "Don't apologize for things you can't control. I knew what I was doing. _I_ chose this."

"Katniss, you shouldn't sacrifice yourself for me. You won't be doing me any favors." He blinks away some of his tears. "I would gladly take a beating every day if it meant keeping you out of here." He pauses, taking a breath. "But I get it. I understand why you did it."

I believe him. He understands why I couldn't _not_ do it. Because he'd rather get physically assaulted than for me to be here. Because we're the same. Just like he'd sacrifice himself for me, I'd do the same for him.

"Did you mean what you said before? About Thread. Could you do it?"

He looks at me in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Kill him."

He hesitates, but only for a moment. "Yes."

"Then help me balance the scale."

He swallows. "Okay."

I don't want to admit it, but getting my revenge on Cashmere was so liberating, I can only imagine how it would feel to let Thread gets what he deserves, and maybe Peeta will feel the same, getting some peace of mind.

I kiss his lips. "Then let's do it." _Let justice be done._

* * *

The meth head who told me about Cashmere rigging the fight is probably our best bet. A junkie's loyalty is apparently better than the ones who stayed with you for years. When many of them betrayed me, she actually tried to do me a favor. It was probably because she was looking to score some drugs, but still. I'm sure she'd let me beat her up for the rest of my stash. That'll send me back to Thread's office.

"Cresta? No, not her," Peeta says without looking at me. "It's too risky. You'll only end up in the hole again."

We're in a corner in the laundry room. It's semi-secluded, allowing us to talk almost freely. Peeta overlooks the room while I empty and refill the washing machines.

"I can live with that. Besides, she can have all of the drugs I have left. I won't be needing them."

"I know you can, but then there will be reports to fill out, and Abernathy will get involved. Too much can go wrong."

I don't say anything for a couple of minutes, contemplating his words. "What did you mean by 'not _her_?'"

He exhales. "Do you remember Finnick Odair?"

Finnick Odair. A CO that worked here a couple of years ago. He was gorgeous, but untouchable. Every inmate tried to get him on their side, but no one succeeded. I never bothered to try—he seemed too easy to lose that I didn't think it was worth the effort.

"Yeah."

"He transferred to the same prison I worked at two years ago. He's a great CO—stern, but fair. He stopped a fight once where she was getting beat up, and she took a liking to him. She started imagining that they were in a relationship and followed him around all the time. To be honest, I don't know why she's here. She should be in psych."

"Why isn't she?"

"She _would_ have been if it weren't for Odair. I guess he felt sorry for her, so instead of turning her in, he transferred to another prison. I said I'd look out for her. I can't break that promise." He pauses. "I take it she turned to drugs after he left because he didn't mention her being an addict."

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Besides, if Thread gets another guard to take you to his office..." he doesn't finish the sentence. I guess he doesn't want to think about that. Neither do I.

"Hadn't you been planning this for eight years?"

He throws me a look. "You can't plan everything. It's difficult to find out the routines in each prison without actually being there. I got some inside information from Odair, but I couldn't ask him too much without raising suspicion."

Peeta runs his hand through his hair, apparently not knowing what to do with it. "It's been awhile since they searched your cells, right?"

"I guess. They don't seem to have a schedule."

A subtle smile settles on his lips, apparently amused by it. "Of course they don't."

* * *

Ever since Cashmere disappeared the inmates have been pretty calm. The mess hall's been remarkably quiet, and I've gotten a few meals in peace, without anyone approaching me trying to 'make friends.' Not even Cato has been as big of an asshole as he usually is. I've barely spoken to Peeta either. Even if he knows his way around we can't risk being seen too much together, so we have to choose our moments carefully.

It's Thursday because it's 'soup' again. When I finish my bowl I leave the tray on the table, making sure Cato notices. It's only seconds before he's yelling at me.

"Everdeen!" I halt. It's not Cato—it's Peeta. I turn around slowly, meeting his eyes for the first time in several days. "That's the _third_ time this week." It's not—it's the first. His gaze is stern, like he's trying to the tell me something. I understand. I love how fast we got back to how we were before any of this ever happened. How we can communicate without words, as if these years apart never happened. "Pick up your tray and put it where it belongs, or I'll drag your ass down to the hole myself."

Not wanting to call his bluff, I pick it up and put it with the others. Cato smirks behind Peeta, snickering something about me being 'dick whipped.' I don't care. He can have this one, and I'll have _his_ dick on a platter later.

 _Three_ days. Three days before I'll be leaving this place. Either with Peeta or in a body bag.

* * *

I realize I might not be able to speak to Peeta before everything goes down, but I have to see him. I have to talk to him. I can't let him go through with this without him knowing everything. He'll resent me for it if I don't tell him. If we are going to do this there needs to be complete honesty between us.

The meth addict—was it Cresta?—gets a few bindles to help me out. I know Peeta's routine, and when he walks around the corner she shoves me into a closet where there aren't any cameras.

"Guard!" I yell, and it's only seconds before he appears in the door opening. I immediately push her out and lock the door, leaving me alone with Peeta.

"What the fuck are you doing, Katniss? This is way too risky."

"She won't tell anyone. She's afraid she'll end up like Cashmere. Besides, this is important."

He puts a chair against the door, making sure no one can get in.

"I have to tell you something."

He freezes, seemingly terrified of what I have to say. He doesn't say anything, silently urging me to continue.

"It's about that day." It's still too difficult to say it— _the day I killed your mother_ —but he knows what I mean. "I should have told you sooner, but I didn't know how and—"

"Katniss," he interrupts, approaching me and putting his hands on my shoulders. "What is it?"

"She told me something, right before…"

It's a couple of seconds before he speaks. "What?"

"She said that you… That you hit her." He relaxes his shoulders, but I can't quite read his facial expression.

"I know," he murmurs. _How could he possibly know?_ He was unconscious. As if sensing my question he continues. "I mean I don't know what she said to you. But I've somehow always known what I did."

"How?"

"I've dreamt about it several times. But it's always felt so real, so I thought there was more to it." He pauses. "Like a memory. It's only fractions, so I don't know the details. Just that feeling. I was so angry that there was only one thing I could think of to relieve it."

There seems to be more to this, but he bites his tongue. "Tell me everything, Peeta," I urge him. "If you remember anything else, now is the time to tell me."

He envelops me in a tight hug, holding me like it's the last time. "It felt good. It felt _so good_ , Katniss. I _should_ regret it, but I don't," he sighs into my hair. "She deserved to suffer for what she did and to die for it. I fucking hate her, and I only wish she'd be alive so that I could kill her myself. I wish I was ashamed for feeling that way, but I'm not."

It feels like a balloon deflating, like he's been holding it in for too long and now finally letting all of his guard down.

I don't argue with him, because he's right. We _should_ be ashamed for what we did. It _shouldn't_ feel good, but it does. We did what was right. Why should we have to apologize for righting a wrong?

I loop my arms around him, gripping his back and burying my face in his chest. "Then don't. Embrace it."

* * *

This is the day. The day I'll finally be out of this place. I had resigned myself to spending the rest of my life in here. Now, I can't imagine being another day in here. Peeta has shown me that there is more to this life, and he wants to share it with me. We'll be branded fugitives. Criminals, menaces, and a danger to society. _What else is new?_

I couldn't care less about those things—I've been called worse. The only thing that concerns me is that whatever happens we will do it together. If something happens to him, I will not continue my life here. There _is_ no life here. I know it now—even before he came here I lived for him. Knowing that he could live his life made my incarceration bearable. If he dies, and I live, there is no life at all for me. In one last act of rebellion against this fucking place I'll kill one of the rapists posing as noble officers, and then I'll die for my troubles.

I think I'm imagining the sound of their shoes meeting the concrete floor because I hear it for hours before they arrive. When the key slides into the lock I bolt up from the bed, but Mason is still sleeping. Should I have warned her? We're not friends, not even allies, but I have no quarrel with her. Hell, I think I even respect her in some weird sort of way. No, I can't focus or worry about her right now.

When the door opens the guard looks surprised that I'm not lying down, but he says nothing. Mason starts to stir when Peeta's voice echoes through the cellblock. "Inmates, line up outside your cells." That's all the instructions we get. Clear and simple.

There are two inmates in each cell, making it twenty-four people in the hallway, excluding the COs. I catch a quick glance at Peeta before someone cuffs my hands behind my back. The reek of cologne alerts me who it is before I see him—Cato.

"You better pray that I don't find anything, or we'll have field day later," he wheezes in my ear. His breath causes me to shudder, and he seems satisfied by my reaction.

"Alright, ladies," Peeta starts, getting everyone's attention. "This is an unscheduled inspection of your cells. I'm assuming you have nothing to hide, so this will probably be quick. Nonetheless, you will wait in the hallway during the inspection." His voice is almost robotic, and I wonder how he does it. I'd be a shivering mess if I were in his shoes.

We wait while they search through the small spaces, turning the mattresses, looking for cavities in the wall. I know the second he finds it—Cato's snickering turns my stomach, and I try not to throw up in his face when he approaches me.

"Taken up carving as an extracurricular activity?" he taunts, holding up my knife only inches from my nose. I don't dignify him with an answer. He just sneers. "Mellark!" he calls over my shoulder. "I think Everdeen need a lesson in what objects are allowed in the cells."

Peeta walks over—I sense him even though I can't see him.

"Hm?" Cato grabs my arms, forcing me to turn around, and I settle my eyes on Peeta. He's holding my knife, inspecting it. "I thought we settled this a couple of weeks ago, Everdeen. Didn't we?" Damn, he's a good actor.

"I guess not," I mutter.

"Cato, can I trust you to finish this?" I can only imagine Cato's look of pride when he realizes he'll be in charge.

"Of course."

"Good. I think medium security is too lenient for you," Peeta says, making sure the other guards hear him. He turns me around and lowers his face so his mouth is close to my ear. "You're going to the warden's office."

* * *

 **Author's note:** If you like this story, please drop me a line and tell me what you think. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr.


	8. Manus in Mano

**Author's note:** This story would not be what it is without the help from papofglencoe, wonderful friend and beta!

Trigger warning: Graphic depictions of violence.

* * *

He holds my hands behind my back, but his touch is soft. Since most of the guards are working with the inspections the corridor is pretty much empty—except for Hawthorne. I can tell the exact moment Peeta sees him, his grip on my wrists tightening.

"Making new friends?" Hawthorne quips, looking at me.

I want to spit in his face. That motherfucker and I have unfinished business. But I can't do it now—it would only cause a scene, and attention is the last thing we need right now.

"Found a knife in her cell," Peeta responds immediately. If he thinks Peeta's taking me somewhere to fuck, maybe he'll mind his own business. Peeta carefully yanks me backward, his mouth by my ear. "There's only one hard object you're allowed in your hand."

His meaning is not lost on Hawthorne, and he smirks at Peeta's comment. He looks at Peeta. "Thread will send her to max."

"Probably."

"Does he know?"

"Not yet."

Hawthorne approaches us—I have to suppress the gag reflex, but I try not to show it. He grabs my chin, turning my face left and right, as if inspecting it. "It's a shame. She gives a decent blowjob." Then he addresses me. "What do you say, sweetheart? One last time? As a parting gift," he mocks.

"I told you, Hawthorne. Don't touch my things," Peeta says in his most authoritative voice.

"What makes you judge of that?" He looks and sounds annoyed. He's probably still pissed because he couldn't have his turn. He seems like someone who can hold a grudge.

"Hierarchy. Would you like a lesson?" Hawthorne's got a couple of inches on Peeta, but Peeta makes up for it in confidence.

He squints his eyes at Peeta, then surrenders, only now seeming to realize that Peeta outranks him. He looks down at his feet. "No." I can't suppress the smirk on my face.

"Good. If you don't have anything better to do, then you can help Cato with the inspections. They're a man short."

Hawthorne drags his feet as he passes us, and I'm sure that if we didn't want the extra attention Peeta would reprimand him for it. He's been a pain the ass to the guards who were involved in the incident in that room. And I love him for it.

The rest of the walk is quiet. Fortunately, we don't meet anyone else, and I appreciate these few minutes of silence, his hand on my wrists, his soft breaths—this closeness.

Before Peeta knocks on the door he unlocks my cuffs. "I need a couple of minutes. You sure you can stall him?"

I turn around so we're face to face. Since he came back he's never faltered, but now there's vulnerability in his eyes—he's nervous too. "Yeah."

He looks around, making sure no one can see us, and puts his hands on my arms. "You can still change your mind about this."

"I know, but I won't," I tell him with the firmest voice I can muster. I'm sure of my words and I'm determined to leave, but I'd lie if I said I wasn't nervous.

He slides his hands up to my cheeks, grabbing my face and pulling me in for a kiss. I part my lips, and our tongues meet as I skate my hands up his arms, grabbing him as if my life depended on it. _It does._ We don't know how everything will play out after I enter that office, so I pour every emotion I can into this kiss, and he does too. The insane roller coaster we've both been on is about to come to an end, and the weight of it hits me. He suckles on my bottom lip before pulling away, and I instantly miss his touch. We _will_ leave this place. Or die trying.

We don't have to say anything else. His fingers linger on my arm a little longer before he knocks on the door.

"What?" Thread shouts from inside.

Peeta opens the door, and we both walk in. Thread doesn't even look up from his papers, and Peeta clears his throat to get his attention.

"We found a knife in her cell." Peeta pushes me forward. "I figured you'd want to speak to her about that."

A smile of satisfaction spreads on his face. "You figured right," he says, licking his lips. _Motherfucker._

Peeta subtly caresses my wrist behind my back before letting me go. "I'll wait outside."

"This might take a while, Mellark. You can continue with the inspection. I'll make sure Everdeen is well taken care of," he says, a smug look on his ugly face.

I don't have to see Peeta to know that he's shooting daggers at Thread. But his voice is still steady. "Alright, sir."

As much as I want to look at him one more time before he leaves, I restrain myself from turning around. When the door closes I take my seat across from Thread. He stands up right away, walking to the door and locking it.

In an instant he's behind me. I don't like it.

"Whatever are we going to do about you, little missy?" He puts his hands on my shoulder and lets one of them shamelessly slide down my shirt to my breast. He grabs it with such force that I have to suppress a cry of pain.

"A knife, huh? Unless you want to be shipped off to max, you have some serious groveling to do."

"What's your price?" I ask, trying not to let the pain he's causing seep into my voice.

"You're not in a position to negotiate. We'll see how well you do today, and then I'll decide if it's good enough. You're a pain in my ass, Everdeen, but you do have decent cunt."

He unbuckles his belt, turns my chair around, and stands with my legs between his. His dick is right in front of me, and I try not to let the disgust show on my face.

"You want to stay here, don't you?" he murmurs, sliding his dick along my left cheek.

"Yes," I whisper.

"Good," he says, backing away from me a couple of inches. "On your knees."

Apparently I hesitate a second too long, and he slaps me. Hard. It takes me by surprise, because even if he uses his whip from time to time, he's never used his fists.

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

Instead of answering I get off the chair and do as he says. He immediately takes my seat. "Take your shirt off," he commands as he strokes himself.

I obey, not wanting to aggravate him. He needs to have a false sense of security.

"You'll probably won't need your pants either."

He barely has time to finish his sentence before there are four rapid knocks on the door. This catches Thread's attention, and I act as if on autopilot. I pull out a knife Peeta slipped in my pocket earlier and put it at his dick. No, this is not a knife—it looks like a scalpel.

"Don't say a fucking word, or I swear to god, I'll cut it off."

The door is locked, but Peeta has a spare key, and when Thread sees him there's a glimmer of hope on his face. But instead of rushing to his aid, Peeta slowly closes the door and locks it again.

"Mellark?"

"Shut up, you fucking piece of shit," he spits. Peeta puts down the bag he was carrying when he came in and pulls out roll of tape to strap Thread's wrists and ankles to the chair. "They'll be needing dental records when we're done with you," he says in Thread's face after being silent during the entire process. Peeta's words have the desired effect—Thread's scared shitless. I've never seen him so weak. It's a wonderful sight.

"What are you—"

"Didn't you hear the officer?" I move the scalpel to his throat. "You will speak only when addressed," I seeth.

Peeta looks to me, seeing my state of undress. "What did he do?" His voice is completely different from when he talks to Thread.

I stand up, putting my shirt back on. "He complimented my pussy." I direct my gaze to Thread. "Or how did you put it? My _decent cunt_."

Peeta takes out a gun, pressing the muzzle against Thread's jaw, only inches separating them. "It's fucking better than decent."

As Peeta moves away from Thread I stand on my toes and give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

His hand snakes around my waist and he puts his mouth by my ear, making sure Thread can't hear him. "You alright?" His genuine concern for me makes me want to shut everything and everyone out. This moment is about him and me, and us alone.

"Yes," I whisper, pressing my cheek against his and feeling his warmth. I guess it'll have to do for now—we're not out of here yet.

Peeta shifts his focus back to Thread as I stand behind him. He tries to follow my movement, as if he's afraid I might do something he won't see coming. _Good._ But Peeta brings his attention back to him.

"Do you know why Everdeen is here?"

"You found… You found a knife in her cell." It looks like he's trying to reposition himself in the chair, but the tape prevents him from doing so.

"No," Peeta says impatiently, exhaling. "In prison."

"I… I don't know," he says carefully, apparently afraid of saying something wrong.

"Sure you do. You must have looked at her file dozens of times, every time you threatened to send her to max."

Thread hesitates, his eyes flickering. _Peeta_ doesn't hesitate. He punches him right on the nose, causing it to start bleeding. "Don't go forgetful on me now, warden. You had no problem remembering every single one of her missteps during my installation."

Thread's hand jerks, probably instinctively wanting to wipe his nose. "She… She killed someone."

"That's right. Do you know who?"

"I don't remember the name. What does it have to do with—"

Peeta pulls out a card from his pocket, throwing it on Thread's lap.

"Ring a bell?"

It's his old driver's license. The one he had before changing his last name. Thread stares at it for a couple of seconds, putting the pieces together.

"You," he says, looking up to Peeta again. "You're the wimp who—"

He doesn't see my fist coming, and I punch him square in the jaw. "He's not a fucking wimp!" _Fuck, that hurts a lot more than I thought it would._

It takes a little longer for him to recover this time, but when he does there's a sneer on his face. "Always hide behind a woman when things get rough?" he taunts. He's very cocky for being in this position, and I want to slap the grin off his face. But that would only be grist to his mill.

Peeta seems unaffected by Thread's mocking. "I can understand why a strong woman might make someone like you feel emasculated. But I really don't like your attitude," he says calmly, before turning the gun around in his hand and hitting Thread with it, exactly on the same spot he hit him before. Peeta backs away, giving me the space. "All yours."

I move so I'm only inches away from his face. Blood runs freely from his nose, dripping down on his shirt. I want to yell. Yell at him for forcing the abortion, raping me, letting almost every guard rape me, for ignoring the beatings, and for all the other shit that's going on in here. But it won't change anything— _he_ won't change.

I let out a huff. "You're not worth my time or my energy."

My words seem to make him think I'm having second thoughts, a glimmer of hope glistens in his eyes.

At first I think I miss. I don't feel the knife slicing through his skin. It appears Thread doesn't realize what I did either. It takes a couple of seconds before his hands instinctively try to move to cover the open wound where I slit his throat, but they're strapped down. The blood squirts from his artery with such force it soaks me. The red liquid is warm, the feeling liberating.

Peeta grabs my arm. "We've gotta go."

I don't know if Thread's dead or alive when we leave his office. It doesn't matter. If he's still breathing, he won't be for long.

"Come on, this way." Peeta pulls me through a door leading to a tiny room. It reminds me of the hole, but this one has another door on the opposite side. It looks like it's a way out. "This is an emergency exit for the administrative staff."

"Won't the alarm go off if we open it?"

"No. It's been broken for years. I checked." He takes out a long cylinder from his bag, threading it on his gun—a silencer—and hands an identical one to me. It feels cold and heavy in my hand. The last time I held one was when I killed his mom. You'd think that it would stir up a string of emotions, but it doesn't. "Listen, when we get out there, you run. Okay? I don't know if we're gonna get fired at. It depends if the guards on watch see us. You remember how to use one of these, right?"

I stare at the gun in my hands. "Yes."

"It's the white Ford. It's open, and the keys are under the driver's seat."

 _Why is he telling me this?_

"Don't you have the keys?"

"Yeah, but…" He swallows. "Whatever you do, keep running, okay?"

I put my hand on his chest, and he grabs my fingers, closing his eyes briefly. "Peeta…"

"Please, Katniss. Whatever happens, get to that car."

"Peeta." I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him to me. "Don't expect me to just leave you." After everything we've been through, how does he think I'll be able to keep on living if something happens to him?

He puts his hands on my hips and kisses my hair. "I hope it won't come to that, but—"

The door we just came through bursts open. Neither of us have time to react before the intruder spots us—it's a guard. He must've seen us. Fuck.

We all stare at each other for a while—I have no idea how long—no one seeming to want to make any sudden movements. Only when the guard slowly moves his hand to the radio on his shoulder does Peeta break this weird stalemate, and swiftly points his gun at the guard. "Don't."

He seems at a loss, not knowing what to do, and frankly neither do I. But Peeta slowly approaches him, pulling the cuffs in the back of his utility belt off with one hand, leaving only one of the gun. The guard apparently sees this as an opportunity and tries to knock it out of Peeta's grip. It doesn't work, but it's enough to shift Peeta's focus for a split second and my heart sinks when I see him getting tripped and falling to the ground.

On instinct, I drop the gun I'm holding and throw myself at the guard, who's know on top of Peeta, desperately trying to pull him off. His ugly hands are locked around Peeta's throat, and the sight makes me lose all control. "Let go of him!" I scream as I try to claw at his arms, neck, face. Whatever I can think of to get him off.

It's enough to get his attention, turning around to throw me off him. With a grunt he manages to land a fist in the side of my stomach. The force knocks the wind out of me. My vision gets blurry and the sounds of the scuffle next to me drown in silence.

The next thing I see is Peeta's face above me. It's pale. Why does he look so scared? He looks down between us. His hands are covered in blood. _Oh no._ He can't leave me now. Everything spins. White lights dance around Peeta's head.

He's my angel.

"Katniss? Stay with me. Please. Stay with me."

Why am I lying down? Peeta's terrified. I lift my hand up to his face, caressing it. There's something red on my finger. I paint a flower on his cheek. _I'm here. I'll always be here. With you._

"Katniss?" He pats the side of my face with his hands. "You need to stay with me." _Why does he think I'm leaving?_

He opens the bag, pulling out something white, and pushes it to my stomach.

Then pain. _Oh, the fucking pain._ The lights disappear when the intense burn from my stomach flashes through my entire body, out to the tips of my fingers.

"Peeta!?" I cough.

"Hey, you're going to be alright, okay." I don't know if he's asking or telling me, but I believe him. He never lies. Not to me. You have to try to stay awake, okay. Can you do that?" The blood on his hands isn't his—it's mine.

The realization throws me back to the present, my brain letting me feel the full extent of my injury. It hurts like hell.

"Yes." I don't know if I can, but I will give it my all.

"Listen, there's a lot of bleeding. You need stitches. The fucker had a knife." Peeta's voice is calm—he's switched to survival mode, methodically working on my wound. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, his jaw clenching. But we're sitting ducks here. Someone is going to find Thread, and then we'll be stuck here, our only chance of leaving slipping through our fingers.

"We have to go, Peeta. We can't stay here." They will find us here if we don't leave.

"Katniss, if we don't do anything about this you're gonna bleed out." That's when I see it. He's not calm. He's terrified. I've always thought that if something happened to me he'd survive it. He's strong. But now I see in his eyes that he won't. We're the same, dependent on each other and unable to survive without the other.

"We _have_ to go."

"I know. I'll get you out of here. I promise." He takes my hand. "Do you trust me?"

He doesn't even have to ask. "Yes."

"Good. I managed to put on a bandage, but that's not gonna last. The infirmary is not too far away. I'll carry you."

No, that won't work. Both of his hands will be tied. "No, I can walk." _I think._

Peeta helps me up to my feet, but he might as well have carried me—I'm putting pretty much all of my weight on him.

"The guard didn't have time to call it in, so no one suspects anything yet, at least," Peeta assures me. I look down at the body. One shot. In the head.

We don't take the shortest way to the infirmary, trying to avoid most of the cameras. We can't evade all of them, but Peeta says they're not monitored all the time, so hopefully no one in surveillance sees us.

I lean on Peeta the entire way, doing my best not to put all of my weight on him. I wish I could stand and walk on my own, but it hurts too much. Thanks to me, we're forced to go back, leaving us extremely vulnerable. "Peeta, I'm so sorry."

We stop after we round a corner. "Hey, listen. Do you remember what you used to tell me after Mother hit me?"

I do—I told him the truth.

"That it wasn't your fault."

"And this isn't yours."

"But you didn't believe me."

"No, but I'm a lot more persuasive than you." Even now, when we're facing the hardest challenge we'll probably ever meet, he manages to put a small smile on my face. And I know he's right. He doesn't say it to placate me. He says it because he believes it. And I believe _him_. "Come on, we're almost there."

The infirmary is a large room with beds along the walls. When Peeta opens the door it's eerily empty. What if they already know? But it doesn't take long before a middle-aged man enters the room from a door opposite the one we came through. Doctor Aurelius. He's done some of my medical exams. He freezes when he sees us.

Before he get's a chance to do anything Peeta points his gun at him.

"Mellark? What—"

"She need stitches, and you're gonna do it."

"Are you asking me to—"

"This isn't a fucking discussion, Aurelius. You either do it, or I'll shoot you and do it myself. I prefer option number one, and I think you do too."

Aurelius looks at me and Peeta for a couple of seconds before making his decision. "Put her here," he says, motioning to one of the beds. Peeta carries me to it and gently puts me down. As soon as he lets me go I grab his hand, holding on to it as hard as I can, searching his eyes to have something to hold on to.

The doctor carefully lifts my shirt and removes Peeta's temporary bandage, which is now completely soaked. Some of it has even smeared onto Peeta's shirt, leaving a red stain. "What happened?"

"A knife," Peeta says, without breaking eye contact with me.

"I have to clean this," he says robotically. Peeta holds my hand the entire time, his eyes going between me and the doctor. "Are you feeling nauseated?"

"No."

The doctor takes my blood pressure and measures my pulse, everything under Peeta's watchful eyes.

"There doesn't seem to be any internal bleeding, and from what I can see the knife missed any vital organs."

Peeta sighs in relief. "Good. Then finish up and we'll be on our way."

Aurelius hesitates again, and I can see Peeta's losing his patience, exhaling loudly.

"It would go a lot smoother if I didn't have a loaded gun pointed at me at all times," Aurelius mutters.

"Well, doctor, it just so happens that I don't trust you. So why don't you focus on what you're doing, and I'll make sure this doesn't _accidentally_ go off?"

I don't feel anything when the doctor stitches me back together. Did he give me something? I feel myself drifting off, Peeta's face turning blurry. But he keeps talking to me, whispering assuring words in my ear that keep me in the present.

"Look at me. Just a little while longer. We'll be out of here in no time." I try to focus on his eyes to keep myself from losing consciousness.

"Peeta?" I whisper. "Tell me a story."

He brushes a tear from my cheek, and gives me the subtlest of smiles. "Did I tell you about the final game in the state wrestling competition?"

"No."

"I was nervous as hell. The guy I was up against was bigger than me. Not much, but sometimes that's all you need. I wanted to win so badly—not for the school or for myself, but for Mom."

I furrow my brows. "Why?"

He closes his eyes, as if to gather strength before continuing.

"Because maybe then she wouldn't see me as a constant failure and disappointment anymore. Or at least for the day." His confession breaks my heart. He did everything he could to get her to care about him, even though all she ever did was break him down. She didn't deserve him.

"Anyway, I'd seen you in the crowd during some of the games, and my foolish, lovestruck teenage mind had somehow convinced myself that you were there to watch _me_ ," he says, shrugging his head as if chastising his younger self.

"The minutes before the game I tried to find you in the sea of people. And then my opponent came out, looking down on me. He wasn't _that_ much taller, but it's a lot of psychology, and he was already winning. It wasn't until we stepped onto the mat that I saw you. It was like the entire room fell silent. And just like that, I knew that I could beat him."

He saw me. He saw me in the audience, and it gave him strength. I've relied on him for so many things, but he depends on me just as much. Lying here, hand in hand, I don't want to be anywhere else. Wherever he is, I want to be there.

"Okay, you're done," Aurelius says, breaking us from our moment. Peeta helps me up to a sitting position. The pain radiates from the right side of my stomach through my entire body. "She can't walk, or the wound will reopen."

"Give me your phone," Peeta says to Aurelius. He pulls it out from his pocket, giving it to Peeta, who hurls it across the room, breaking it against a wall. "Where's the bathroom?"

The doctor points to a door close to the one we came from. "Get in there." Aurelius looks at Peeta in horror. "They'll find you eventually. You won't like the alternative."

As soon as Aurelius opens the door, Peeta closes it and and props a chair up against it, making it impossible to open from the inside. He smashes some of the cupboards, taking most of the stuff, and puts it in his bag before swinging it over his shoulder.

"Put your hands around my neck," he instructs when he's back by my side. "There's been a slight change of plans. We'll go through here. We have to get outside before the alarms go off. Many of the doors lock automatically."

"How far are we from the parking lot?"

"Too far. I have to get the car first and come and pick you up."

He scoops me up in his arms. I know he's doing his best not to make my pain worse, but it hurts like hell. "Fuck," I exclaim. I'm afraid I'll pass out.

"I know. Just hold on a little longer." He carries me through the same door Aurelius came through and then a short, narrow corridor. At the end of it is another door that looks like it leads outside. When we get to it, Peeta uses one of his knees to prop me up, freeing one of his arms so that he can use his keycard.

The light almost blinds me. The sun shines right in my face. It's warming. Comforting. Peeta carefully puts me down on the ground. I'm an easy target, waiting here for Peeta to come back, but it's our only chance. I'll only slow him down if he takes me with him, leaving us too exposed to the guards.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promises and hands me a gun. I know he will. He'll put his own life at risk to save me. And that scares me more than anything.

I think I drift in and out of consciousness, because I have no idea how long it takes before I hear the car. That's when the alarm goes off. There's a click from the door we just came through. If I'd slowed us down any longer we'd be stuck in there. I've never heard this alarm before. It's different from the 6.30 wake-up call—louder and more high-pitched. I wait for the shooting to begin. But it doesn't.

Peeta parks the car right in front of me, shielding me from the watchtowers. He opens the passenger door from the inside. Stepping out, he helps me get in the car. I do my best to help him, but the wound hurts so fucking much that Peeta ends up doing all of the work. He even makes sure to buckle my seatbelt before we take off.

That's when the shooting starts. This car isn't bulletproof—one shot in the right place and we'll never get out of here.

"They're shooting at the tires," Peeta says, as if that will calm me down. If they hit one of them, everything is over. We can't get away if they blow a tire.

But Peeta manages to get away from the bullets, skillfully turning left and right before we're out of their sight.

We come to a wider road, and we're both silent for a couple of minutes before he takes my hand.

"How are you feeling?"

It hurts like hell, but I really want to sleep. "I'm tired."

He grazes his thumb over my knuckles. "It's okay. Go to sleep."

I close my eyes and see seventeen-year-old Peeta right before the last game in the wrestling tournament. That moment when his eyes locked on mine. I'd written it off as a coincidence, a figment of my imagination, that he actually was looking at me.

"Peeta."

"Hm?" He squeezes my fingers.

"I _was_ there to watch you."

I don't have to open my eyes to know that he's smiling.

* * *

Author's note: If you're enjoying this story please drop me a line, either here or tumblr (maxwellandlovelace). Thank you for reading!


	9. In omnia paratus

**Author's note:** Lots and lots of gratitude and love to my beta and friend, papofglencoe. Caryn, you're wonderful!

* * *

The sound of sand crushing beneath the tires wakes me. Where am I? I open my eyes slowly, trying to adjust to the light.

I'm leaning with my side to the back of the seat, my face to the driver's seat, so the first thing I see is Peeta. He hasn't noticed I'm awake yet, and I take the opportunity to simply look at him, taking him in. He's here. He's _real_.

"Hey."

He quickly turns to me, giving me a subtle smile and taking my hand. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

"Like someone stabbed me."

"That's a good sign," he says before concentrating on the road again.

That's when I notice that we're in a pickup-truck. "What happened to the other car?"

"I ditched it in the woods a couple of miles after you fell asleep." I didn't even think about that. Of course they'll be looking for that car—everyone saw it, and it's probably all over the surveillance footage.

"How long was I asleep?"

"A couple of hours. Aurelius gave you some sedative."

"Where are we going?" We're not on the same road anymore. Trees tower over us on both sides of the dirt road, which is just wide enough for one car.

"There's a cabin about half an hour drive from here."

"Peeta?" I say, putting my hand on his arm. "Thank you."

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. Instead, he squeezes my fingers again. The rest of the car ride is silent. I can't stop looking at the woods. I'm finally here. I try to take in as much as I can, afraid of waking up in a hard cell bunk.

"Where are we?" I ask when Peeta stops the car in front of a small wooden cabin close to a lake.

"I bought it from a local farmer. The property line stretches about half a mile in either direction from here. There's a fence, and the only road here is private. The nearest town is twenty miles that way, and the prison is seventy-five miles that way."

"Isn't that a little close?"

"This is the farthest place I could find that's still inside the state line. We can't risk crossing it yet."

"They won't be able to track this place through you?"

"Probably not. I paid cash and didn't use my real name. And it was a couple of years ago. If they run a search for newly bought properties in the area, this won't come up."

"Well, haven't you figured everything out?" I manage a smile.

"See, there's more to me than a pretty face," he says, exiting the car.

It's not until I reach to unbuckle my seatbelt that I remember about my injury. If Aurelius gave me painkillers they're wearing off now. Peeta opens the passenger door and helps me with the seatbelt. Scooping me up in his arms, he carries me inside the cabin.

"I guess now I'll have to marry you," I say when we cross the threshold.

He snorts. "Right, because we are so traditional."

I smile at his words, but it fades the instant he puts me down on the bed and I see myself in the full-length mirror. I'm still covered in blood. Thread's blood. It's dry and brown now. My face is almost clean, but my neck is still covered, and I can only imagine what the rest of my body looks like.

"I need a shower," I say when Peeta comes back from the car.

He takes a seat next to me. "You can't take a shower yet. The stitches are too new."

I have to get this blood off me. I can't stand another second of it. "Peeta, I can't—"

"Okay. Let me help you."

He lifts me up in his arms again, and I rest my hand on his chest, letting the closeness to him soothe me. I miss him the moment he puts me down on the toilet and leaves to get something. When he comes back, he's carrying a simple chair of some sort, and puts it in the shower stall.

Peeta offers me his hand and I take it, letting him help me to the chair. Slowly and carefully we work together to get rid of my clothes. I take one of my arms out of the sweater, and he gently takes it off. He helps me with my bra, tentatively pulling it over my head. I manage to stand up for a little while to shed my pants, leaving me only in my panties.

He sits on his knees in front of me. He's still wearing the same clothes, the blood stain on his shirt only serving as a reminder of what we did. With my left hand I tug the hem of it. "This needs to go to."

Peeta swiftly unbuttons it and shucks it off, throwing it on the bathroom floor. The blood leaked through his shirt, staining the t-shirt beneath it. Without prompting, he takes it off too.

Taking the shower head, he turns the water on and soaks the cloth in his hand. The moment he puts it on my body I feel free—like he's cleansing me of my sins. _Our_ sins. But they're not sins. The blood dissolves in the water, pooling around the drain before disappearing. The water is cold, but I don't care.

He wets the cloth again, repeating the motion. I close my eyes, letting him wash me.

"You did this for me once. That's real, right?"

"Yes, but you were unconscious."

"I know. The doctor told me someone cleaned me up. I ruled out my dad pretty quickly."

He takes his time, making sure I'm clean from all the blood, dragging the cloth along my arms, throat, chest, fingers. I close my eyes, revelling in this. His touch. I've missed this. I don't think I realize it until now. How much I've missed being free. If they catch us tomorrow I can live with that, knowing that we have tonight.

I don't think I told him in there. I was afraid that someone might hear it, tainting the words that are so special. Because they are for us, and us alone. I couldn't risk it. But now we're away from all of that. No one can hear us here. We're alone. Safe.

"I love you." I don't think I've ever told anyone else. And I never will.

"I love you, too." He doesn't question why I didn't say it before.

He turns the water off, and I put my hand on his shoulder. If I could I'd use both my arms to pull him to me, but I can't. It hurts too much.

I let my fingers slide along his arm, goosebumps breaking out on his skin. His pants are soaked from washing me, but he doesn't seem bothered by it.

He turns the water off and gets out of the shower. Once again he picks me up and carries me back to the bedroom. When he puts me on the bed a wave of exhaustion hits me. "I'm so tired, Peeta."

"I know." He strokes my back. "Let me just get the rest of the stuff from the car, and we'll go to bed."

He moves to get up, but I grab his arm. "Stay. Please."

"Okay."

He quickly takes off his wet pants and pulls the cover up over us. I turn over to my good side, tugging at the waistband of his boxers. I need to feel all of him, without the restriction of clothes. He readily complies and helps my with my underwear too. He lets me rest my head on his arm, our noses almost bumping into each other's.

He strokes my cheek. "Whatever happens, I don't regret anything."

"Me neither."

He pulls me closer, his hand on my back. It won't be long before I fall asleep—my eyelids are like lead. Pushing my forehead to his, I sigh, letting every worry leave me. Tonight it's just us. Together.

* * *

Because of my injury I'm pretty much incapacitated for the next three weeks. The intense pain from the wound subsides to a dull ache, and I have to refrain from any physical activity—if Peeta had his way I'd be in bed the entire time, but I can't lie idle for so long. I need to do _something_.

Peeta's stocked up on cans and other nonperishables, making it possible to stay here for weeks without having to leave the premises. We have fresh water, and electricity from time to time. It's unreliable, but fixing it isn't worth the risk, nor the trouble.

I'm pouring pasta sauce from a can into a pot when Peeta enters the kitchen after chopping wood. He wipes his forehead with his discarded t-shirt. Our only reliable heat source is a fire place and since I'm barely allowed to move Peeta's been forced to do all of that work since we got here. He tends to the physical labour and I cook. I think this is the most traditional we've ever been, or ever will be. It's boring.

Unfortunately, having to stay away from physical activity means _any_ physical activity. And when he walks in like that, sweat outlining his perfectly sculpted chest, it's torture. I may be physically injured, but my libido is not. And the way my body reacts to his hasn't changed. I feel fine, but Peeta's cautious, afraid that we'll do something to cause an infection or rip the stitches.

"Peeta, put your shirt on," I say, annoyed that he's teasing me this way. He's probably not even aware of it, and that makes it even more infuriating. Becoming a correctional officer did good for him. He was in good shape in his teens too, but this is sick. Up until now, I haven't been able to fully appreciate his body. Our few moments have been brief, and at least one of us has had some piece of clothing left on. Out of all the feelings I thought I'd have now, sexual frustration wasn't one of them.

"I have to wash off first," he responds casually, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving.

He returns only minutes later, thankfully with some clothing on his upper body. Putting his hands on my waist but avoiding the bandaid on the right side, he rests his chin on my shoulder. "I think we can take out the stitches tonight."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it looked okay last time I reapplied the bandaid, but I wanted to wait a few extra days." Since Peeta's had medical training, he's been taking care of my wound, making sure it heals properly and without any complications.

I turn around in his arms, locking them around his neck. "Good." I pull his face to mine, pressing our mouths together in a kiss. His tongue traces my lips, and I part them for him. We both explore each other's mouths as he cups my face with his hands. I love the way he takes control of the kiss, pulling my face toward his and plunging his tongue greedily into my mouth. I'm weak in the knees before he releases me.

"As much as I appreciate all of this, we have stuff to do. If you take the stitches out tonight, how long before we can get to it?"

He sighs, putting his forehead against mine. "A couple of days, depending on how it looks tonight."

"Okay."

* * *

I lie down on my side as Peeta sits in front of me. The adhesive sticks to my skin as he carefully pulls the bandaid off.

"Looks good. No infections," he assures me after cleaning it up. Using tweezers and a small pair of scissors he starts removing the stitches. His gaze is intense and focused. I thought it might hurt, but when he pulls the thin thread from my skin there's only a dull, tingling feeling. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah."

Every now and then his fingertips graze a part of my side that's not affected by the wound, causing goosebumps to break out on my upper body and down my arms. If he notices he doesn't comment on it.

Cleaning it one more time, he puts on another bandaid, and we're done. When he returns from the bathroom after getting rid of the old bandaid he's only wearing his sweatpants, ready to tuck in for the night.

When he was gone I shedded everything but my panties and found one of his shirts in the closet. It's long enough to cover my ass, and I've only closed one button. If this doesn't work, nothing will.

"Katniss…"

I don't want to talk. I want to fuck. So I get up from the bed, keeping him from saying anything else with a kiss. His lips easily part for me, and his hands settle on the sides of my ribs, right next to my breasts. He sighs, breaking the kiss.

"We shouldn't—"

"Peeta, don't treat me like I'm a porcelain doll. I won't break. You know I won't."

"I know. It's just… Having you here with me. I've dreamed about this moment for so long, Katniss. Now that it's here, I don't want to ruin it."

"How could you ruin it?"

He cradles my face in his hands, pulling me in for another kiss. He gently sucks on my bottom lip before pulling back again.

"I'm scared," he whispers.

I've seen many emotions from Peeta—love, anger, hurt, pain, hate—but I think I can count on one hand the number of times he's been scared. He was cautious around his mother, but not scared. "Why?"

"Are you sure that this is what you want, Katniss? For real."

 _What kind of question is that?_ Of course I want this. Why would I go with him if I— _oh._

"Because if you don't, tell me now. If you want to leave, I'll respect that. Hell, I deserve it. You don't need me anymore."

Why can't he see that I've always needed him? I always will. "I need you."

Before he can say another word I press my mouth against his, trying to convey that his fears are unfounded. This time he responds with eagerness, sliding his hands around my head and threading his fingers through my hair. His tongue on mine is like a completely new sensation, sending jolts of fire through every nerve in my body. Before, there's always been a subdued worry in the back of my head, afraid of someone walking in and not letting me enjoy his touch to the fullest. Now, we can take our time.

Stepping closer to him I let my hands roam all over his back, sliding them over his shoulders and exploring his chest and taut abdominals. He takes my hand in his, effectively stopping my movements, and breaks the kiss. His eyes bore into mine, full of love and desire. For a moment I think he'll stop where this is going, but when he opens the button on the shirt I'm wearing and gently nudges me back, I know we're on the same page.

When the back of my legs hit the foot of the bed I sit down, my hands skating down his sides and settling on his hips. My fingers dig into the fabric of his pants, trying to tug them down. But he stops me once again, taking my hands and kissing the knuckles.

"Peeta," I sigh, falling back on the bed.

Before I get a chance to say anything more he's on top of me, showering my face and neck with open-mouthed kisses. The tip of his tongue connects with my skin in all the right places. When his knee presses in between my thighs I scoot back. I want him to rest more of his weight on me, to crush his body to mine, but he won't until I've healed properly.

When his knee presses against me again all those thoughts go out the fucking window. He's doing everything right, and I wouldn't change a thing even if I could. This little motion of his spurs me into action, pulling his face to mine for a proper kiss and plunging my tongue into his mouth. He rewards me with a groan from the back of his throat and the sound is music to my ears.

Peeta's strong and could resist my every attempt, but instead he follows my every direction. So when I gently press my hands against his chest, urging him to the side he complies. Instantly, I climb over him—if he can't press his body against mine, we'll have to do it the other way around. This position allows me to move more freely, and I can adjust so that my wound doesn't hurt without Peeta having to worry about it. I throw off the shirt, leaving me only in my panties.

His hands find my outer thighs, moving me on top of him. When he does I cry out in pleasure—and he's still in his pants. Fuck. Me.

At my cry of approval he sits up, supporting me with his hands on my back. His mouth finds my breast, and if I wasn't already so turned on, the feeling of his tongue swiping across my nipple would certainly do it. Locking my legs around his waist, the heels of my feet dig into his back, urging him closer. He kisses his way to my other breast, and when he envelops it with his mouth my hips roll against his, sending the next wave of pleasure through me.

My hands find their way to his hair, my fingers digging into his scalp as I push my hips against his again.

"Fuck, Katniss," he pants when he needs to come up for air.

"I know." Because I _do._ We've both been craving this moment, being together like this. For real. Completely alone. And now that we're here we want to make as much of it as possible, not letting it go to waste.

Without warning he pulls his head back, looking up to me. The look on his face is filled with adoration. Love. Lust. He scoots back, pulling me with him. My hands on both side of his head support me as I lower myself down to his face, locking our lips together. Purposefully, I roll my hips again, and his fingers dig into my skin, his body responding exactly like I want to. He sucks on my bottom lip, his hands roaming all over my upper body.

When he cups my face, pulling me closer to him, the hunger I feel for him is too much for me to handle, so I climb off him and peel off his pants. Now he's only wearing a pair of boxers, and they do very little to hide his erection. There is little I can do to mask my disappointment when he stops my hands from removing his last piece of clothing.

"Peeta…" I sigh.

"Katniss," he murmurs. "We don't have to rush this."

"I know."

"Prove it." He's using his authoritative, stern voice. How can his voice alone turn me into a pathetic pile of mush? "Climb up on top of me."

 _Oh._ He's never done _that_ before. He's made me come with his tongue countless times, but never with me practically sitting on his face. I make quick work of my panties, straddle his waist, and slide up his torso using my knees. I lift myself over his shoulders so my crotch is right in his face. He loops his arms around my thighs, pulling me closer to him, and when his tongue connects with my clit I automatically grab the headboard so I don't fall over at the sensation.

But he doesn't continue, and when I look down on him, he only smiles. "Good?"

I would comment on the smug grin on his face, but I want this too much to answer with anything other than the absolute truth. "Yes."

Pulling me closer to him again he continues to work me with his tongue. Every flick leaves me wanting more. More of everything. More of _him_. It doesn't take long before my hips uncontrollably start rocking against his mouth.

"Jesus, fuck!" It feels so good. In this position I'm so open to him as he sucks and teases my clit. I'm afraid he won't be able to breathe, but his hands and arms hold me firmly, just allowing me move my hips. When I feel the telltale tingling letting me know that I'm close to release he stops. "No," I pant, but I'm too worked up to form any coherent sentence.

"There's no rush, Katniss," he purrs, pleased with himself.

"I know. I just… I want to come." I _need_ to come.

"Why didn't you say so?" he smirks and plunges his tongue inside. I love having him inside me, connecting us together on a whole new level. I can barely support my weight anymore—Peeta holds me up and I do my best, holding onto the headboard.

There it is again. That sensation. But he doesn't stop. I'm close. So fucking close. I need to be closer to him. I need. I want. I want more. More. More. I search for something to hold on to. There's nothing. I fumble for something, finding only his legs. When something swipes over my nipple it's the only thing I need to completely lose myself. Surrender to this intense pleasure. Surrender to him. This feels so good. _He_ feels so good. Let me freeze this moment and stay in it forever.

His name falls from my lips as I come down from the most intense high of my life. My muscles give out and I fall back, his torso against my back. "Oh my fucking god."

He sits up, his hands on my back, pulling me to him. I'm glad he's so strong because I can't trust my muscles for shit right now. His lips find mine, and I taste myself on his tongue as I suck it into my mouth.

"Can we fuck _now_?"

He turns me over so we're in the same position as before, with him above me. "Yes," he says before kissing me thoroughly. I hook my fingers in the waistband of his underwear, tugging them down, and he helps me get them completely off.

Naked, he settles his hips between my thighs, his cock pressed against my slit. I'm still a little sensitive, but it feels incredible, being like this with him again.

"Fuck," he growls in my ear as he rocks his hips against mine. This man. I don't deserve him, but I'm too selfish to do anything about it. Whatever he gives me, I'll gladly take it.

"Did you bring—"

"Yeah," he interrupts, fumbling with his hand in the drawer next to the bed. He works fast, and before I know it he's got the condom on, and is back on top of me. Grabbing himself, he pushes inside.

This feels like the first time all over again. In a way, it kind of is. Not being afraid that someone might come barging in is a feeling I've almost forgotten and am now rediscovering.

He stretches me just the right amount, filling me completely without hurting me.

"You feel so good," he whispers before taking my lip between his teeth, tugging gently, and pushes into me once more. A moan escapes my lips, and he moves his hips again, this time with more determination. He must be as impatient as I am, because it doesn't take long for him to pick up his speed. My legs wrap around his waist, meeting his every thrust and urging him to keep going. There's an ache in my side, but I don't fucking care. What Peeta's doing to me right now overshadows everything else.

Locking my arms around his neck, I pull him to me, capturing his lips in a wet, sloppy kiss. The tip of his hair swipes over my forehead back and forth as he drives into me. He keeps our lips connected as he increases his pace, neither of us barely hanging on to control. He knows exactly what I want—how I want it. He hits every spot, exactly right. This is perfect. He's perfect. _We're_ perfect.

The familiar feeling rises again, and I let out a moan at the sensation.

"More," is the only word that escapes me.

At this, he stops his movements, pulling me up so we're both sitting up with me straddling his thighs. He swiftly enters me again, and in this position I get more control of the pace. Instantly, I buck my hips, trying to find release. With every thrust I get a little closer, but when his tongue lavishes my nipple, it drives me so much closer.

"Don't stop," I pant, trying desperately to keep this pace, my nails digging into his back.

"You're so fucking perfect, Katniss. Come for me."

And I do. I come for him so fucking hard. I clench around him and he lets out a string of expletives I don't catch. I frantically rock my hips against his, trying my best to prolong this indescribable feeling of completeness.

I'd thought that contracting around him would make him come too, but when I come back to my senses he's still rock hard inside me, and his eyes are filled with pure hunger.

He puts his hands on my hips, lifting me off him. I know what he wants—he doesn't have to say it. Turning around, I kneel on all four.

He slides his fingers along my slit, checking if I'm ready—as if this fucking session didn't make me dripping wet for him already. Immediately after retracting his hand he slams into me, filling me up once again. I won't come again like this, but that's irrelevant. This is about Peeta. I'll give him whatever he wants.

But this is still so good. Hearing how much he loves this. How close he is. I meet his every movement by pushing my ass against him. His hands find my hips again, guiding me and pulling me to him.

"Fuck, Katniss. I'm gonna—" And then he comes. With a grunt, he fucks me through his release. Every thrust of his I meet with a groan because I can't hold it back. Why should I? He pulses inside me as he fills the condom. We stay like this for a couple of seconds, catching our breaths, before he pulls out.

He quickly comes back, and I snuggle against his chest. "That was unbelievable." It's definitely an understatement, but it's the only word I can think of in this post-fuck haze.

"Yeah." I draw patterns on his upper body as we fall into a comfortable silence. When he turns around to his side, resting his head on the back of his hand, he turns somber. "Listen. I didn't mean to doubt you. It's just… If you'd used me to get out of there I wouldn't blame you."

I don't know what to respond to that, so I kiss him, hoping that'll convince him that I want to be here—with him—and that _this_ was my goal, _not_ getting out of prison. When we break apart and he opens his eyes I know that he believes me.

* * *

The bedroom has two closets—one of them contains our clothes, and in the other are items I'd never in my life thought I'd need. Wigs, glasses, guns, pharmaceuticals, passports, money. _A lot_ of money.

"Peeta, where the fuck did you get all of these things?"

"Collected a few favors," he shrugs.

"What kind of favors?"

"Katniss..."

"I'm not judging you." I don't. I'm smart enough to know when I'm standing in the proverbial glass house. "I just want to know. Why do they owe you?"

"For looking the other way, mostly."

He comes up to me, close enough for me to feel the coffee on his breath, and I notice he hasn't shaved in at least a day. His hands slides up my sides, lingering on the bandaid.

"How does it feel?" He's not asking because he feels like he has to—he asks because he's genuinely concerned.

That's why I can't blow off his constant worrying. "Good. I think the sex helped."

The grin on his face reminds me of when we were younger, before any of this ever happened. Innocent. At least more innocent than we're now. "Let me know when I can be of service."

"You're my go-to guy."

"I better be." He gives me a brief smile before pulling out the map. "I don't think they've found the other car yet. They haven't alluded to anything like that on the news anyway."

We don't have TV or internet out here, but the radio in the car works. The news reported the breakout and two deaths, but they haven't released details about them. Our names are repeated frequently, and I can only assume that our faces are all over the news. They don't seem to have found the connection between us yet, or they're consciously not disclosing that information.

To be honest, I don't care if they find out about our past. It doesn't matter anymore now that we're out. If anything, it would be sticking it to the system for missing it, and letting Peeta work at the prison where I was serving time.

Since we're all people seem to talk about—the talk show hosts keep discussing theories on what happened and why—both Peeta and I are hesitant to return to the city. But we can't stay out here forever. Eventually they will find us—we haven't even left the state—and we still have work to do.

"Are you ready?"

I press my lips against his again. We're ready for anything. "Always."

* * *

 **Author's note:** Thank you for reading! As always, if you like this story, please drop me a line and let me know what you think.


	10. Hoc est bellum

**Author's note:** This story would not be what it is today without the help from my friend and beta, papofglencoe! Thank you for you support and general awesomeness!

Contains graphic violence.

* * *

Peeta's marked all the places of interest on the map. We'll have to be careful with it, though, because a paper map is apparently hard to come by these days, and we don't want to make more trips to town than absolutely necessary.

I'm sitting on one of the chairs and he's leaning over the table, his arms stretching the fabric of his shirt perfectly. After that wonderful round of sex last night, I want him again. And again. And again.

He points to the prison that served as my home for eight years and follows the marked path to the outskirts of town. "He lives here. There's a supermarket a mile in this direction where he makes almost daily trips."

I give Peeta a look. _He goes grocery shopping every day?_

"See here?" He moves his finger to a spot not far from the supermarket. "The hob. Worst-kept secret in town."

"Hookers?"

"Yeah. And drugs. Whatever you want, you can find it there."

"Why am I not surprised?" _And why does Peeta know so much about this?_ Was he a visitor there? No, he told me that he'd never done anything like that, and I believe him.

"He's a piece of shit. Did you think he'd stop once he's outside the prison walls?"

"Guess not."

"I pulled his schedule from the database, but that might've changed now after…" He drifts off. "Anyway, he alternates between the day and night shift. It's the day shift this week, so he's usually home by six."

Peeta points to another marked route on the map. "Every other day he takes a detour here. Except for weeks he works night."

"What's there?"

He hesitates. "You know I'll support you no matter what you decide, right?"

"Peeta." I put my hand over his. He's scaring me. "What is it?"

He looks down, refusing to meet my eyes. "A daycare. He has a son."

I stare at Peeta. I did not see this coming. He's the last person I expected to have kids. He shouldn't even be allowed to.

Does it make a difference? _Should_ it? No. He made this life for himself—now he'll pay the price.

"The mother?"

"They're not together. She seems decent—works at the DMV, goes to yoga on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and does laundry on every other Sunday. No criminal record."

I bet this kid is in better hands with her than he'll ever be with Cato.

"You grew up without a father," Peeta says. "Do you want the same for this kid?"

"Peeta. The worst thing about not having a father was how my mother shut me out. We'll be doing this kid a favor, ridding the world of his father. And if he's lucky, his mother is better than mine. Maybe he doesn't see it now, maybe he never will, but Cato deserves to die for everything that he's done."

"Okay. Like I said, I'm with you one hundred percent if this is what you want to do."

"It's not like people haven't grown up without a parent before! Look at you. Your mom beat you half to death and your dad didn't care. And you turned out fine."

"I don't think everyone agrees with you on that one."

"Does it matter, Peeta? To me, you're perfect. Don't sell yourself short. Anyone else would have crept into a shell, not caring about anyone but themselves. But you didn't. You made something of yourself and that's the biggest 'fuck you' to you mother if I ever saw one."

Tipping my chin up with his fingers, he captures my lips in a kiss. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"If he decided to put a kid on this earth, maybe it's our job to keep him from tainting it."

"You're right."

* * *

Through the scope of the rifle we get a good view of his apartment. He's sitting on his couch, seemingly enjoying a TV show. He got home about an hour ago, and after warming something up in the microwave he's been parked on the sofa. We have to wait until dusk—we can't risk getting recognized.

Peeta's lying next to me, his arm brushing mine. The warmth he radiates calms me, anchoring me in the belief that we're doing the right thing. "You sure you don't want to just do it now?" he asks from the left of me. "It would be an easy kill."

"That would be a clean, humane death. He wouldn't know what hit him. What good would that do?"

He doesn't answer.

"Peeta? You're with me on this, right?"

"Of course I'm with you. Say the word, and I'll strangle him myself for what he did to you."

"I want him to know why he's dying. Otherwise it's pointless."

"Okay."

He's quick to open the door when we finally knock. He's wearing a T-shirt that says _Correctional officer. Because badass isn't a job title._ Please.

He looks at both of us in confusion before he recognizes us. There's a moment of silence before he speaks.

"You—"

Peeta punches him in the mouth before his next word. "You fucking piece of shit."

Cato stumbles back, almost tumbling over, and covers his blood-soaked mouth and nose. One of his hands goes to his pocket, but I put my gun his direction. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. I'll blow your fucking head off before you get your hands on that cell."

He holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, I won't." His voice is weak, insecure, a complete one-eighty from when he used to rape me.

"Cato, Cato, Cato," I taunt him, because it's my turn. "You're a much bigger pussy than I gave you credit for. A gun to your face, and you're the biggest fucking pussy I ever saw."

"Two."

"What?"

"There are _two_ guns pointed at my face."

"Well, you've got a lot of fucking nerve. Back up," I say, pointing my gun to his groin to make a point. The thought of getting his dick blown off must terrify him, because he staggers back. He thinks he's getting out of this alive. He's scared shitless, and I enjoy every second of his misery.

Peeta walks ahead of us, pulling a chair from the kitchen.

"Sit," he commands, but Cato seems unsure. "Sit the fuck down, or I'll cut your fucking balls off." The way he says it, without hesitation, lets Cato know he's telling the truth. He _will_ follow through, and Cato understands it, sitting down on the chair. Instead of saying anything, Peeta straps Cato down, his legs and arms taped to the chair just like Thread was.

"You're a fucking—"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before Peeta punches him in the face again.

"Watch your mouth, or I swear to everything holy, I'll shoot you right now."

He seems to get the picture. At least, he stops talking back.

"Okay." Blood runs from his mouth and nose, landing on his sweater and forming a pattern that almost looks like a roadmap.

I stand in front of him. "You're a rapist, a predator, and a slimy little shit. You don't deserve to live."

He's not threatened by me. He thinks I'm weak, a nobody. When I talk to him his facial expression turns smug. Like 'okay, I'll humor you, babe.'

"You won't kill me." His words only confirm my suspicion.

"Okay, tell me. Why won't I kill you?"

"You don't have the guts. You're a pussy." He sounds just like Peeta's mother.

"Do you even know why she was in prison, Cato?" Peeta says immediately.

"Why the fuck would I care?" he says, spitting blood on the floor.

Peeta hits him again. On the nose. It must hurt like a motherfucker. "Because if you knew you wouldn't be so cocky right now. You fucked with the wrong person."

"I made a mistake with Thread," I tell him. "I don't think he understood why he had to die. But you, you will know exactly why I kill you."

"You? You killed Thread?" His voice shakes. _Finally_ he seems to realize what a dire situation he's put himself in.

I take out the scalpel from my pocket, slowly dragging the back of it along Cato's throat. "He was in the exact same position as you are now, unable to move and shivering like the little pussy he is." I pause for effect. " _Was._ " I fix my eyes on his—the shade is almost identical to Peeta's, but whereas his are strong, determined, sexy, Cato's are plain scared.

Suddenly he starts shaking violently, as if he thinks the tape will break. And what would he do if it did? Panic fills his features before Peeta points his gun at him. "Stay still, or this will be a lot messier than it has to be."

"What difference does it make if you're gonna kill me anyway?"

"True. But you decide if it'll go fast or slow. I can be very thorough when I break every fucking bone in your body." Peeta gets in his face. "And I'll enjoy every second of it," he adds slowly before pulling away.

"P-Please. I have a son."

This time it's _me_ who punches him. Man, his face is messed up. Blood running from his nose—it's probably broken by now. Is one of his front teeth loose? Probably. "Don't you dare play that card. If you decided to procreate that's your fucking problem. Not mine."

I've never understood the long monologues in movies right before the villain tries to kill the hero. It only serves as a way for the hero or their companions to escape. Now, I can understand that need. The need to tell Cato _exactly_ why he's dying. Otherwise, what's the point?

I'm not gonna drag this out, but he _will_ know why he dies.

"You have no one to blame but yourself. _You_ made me like this." That's not the entire truth—he's not the only one who'll get a visit from us, but it's better if he only blames himself. "You tried to tear me down. Beat me. Fuck me. It didn't work, and now you'll pay for it."

Realization and fear flicker in his eyes when I aim the gun at his forehead. There's silencer attached to it so it won't make too much noise. It won't be completely silent, but close enough.

"This won't change anything. You think you can change the system. You won't."

He's right—it won't. But that's not why I'm here. This is not a fucking revolution. This is war. I have nothing more to say to this fucker.

I expected to hesitate in this moment. I've killed before, but this is different. My hand on the gun doesn't shake, and the fear written all over Cato's face does nothing to deter me from this decision. It's the photograph behind him that does.

It must be his son. He's got the same hair color. _Like Peeta's._ I've never wanted to be a mother—why would I? Neither mine nor Peeta's made me want to seek that life. But if Peeta wanted it I would have gladly given it to him.

But I can't.

And it's assholes like Cato's fault.

So I pull the trigger.

* * *

I don't remember Peeta pulling me out of the house and into the car. I don't remember the drive back to the cabin. I don't remember him wiping my face.

The only thing I _want_ to remember is his warm embrace as we lie on the bed. His fingers run up and down my spine, and I love every second of it. After getting rid of Cato all I want to feel is Peeta's closeness. Letting me know that there's is something good in my world, and not only darkness. That's it. That is all I crave.

I press my lips against his neck, feeling his pulse as I trail a path of kisses down his shoulder and arm.

"Thank you," I whisper against his skin. When I reach his wrist he grabs my chin, pulling me up to his mouth. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, and I open up for him. The warmth of his lips catches me by surprise, and I groan into his mouth as we kiss.

I slide my body over his and frame his face with my hands. He's clean-shaven, so my palms graze soft skin as I deepen the kiss. I love him. I love him so fucking much. I want to surrender to this man. Completely.

I don't break the kiss as he slides inside me. This is good. Everything feels so good. That's why I need to make sure.

"You don't hate me?"

"Why would I?" he pants in my ear. In that question he says everything I need to know. We're the same. I don't know what we are, but that's okay. We might be monsters, but why does that have to be a bad thing?

Instead of answering I thrust my hips against his. It's incredible. To be able to feel him. For real. I let him take control. Take control over me despite the fact I'm the one on top of him. He owns me. Whatever he wants to do to me, I'd let him.

Using his hands on my hips, he turns us both over so that his weight pushes me into the mattress. He doesn't rest his entire body on me, his chest grazing my nipples as he drives into me. It doesn't take long before we're both panting in a pool of lifeless limbs. This is where I always want to be.

* * *

We stay at the cabin for a couple more days, letting the worst of Cato's death cool down. It's difficult to know if the police have connected the dots about me and Peeta, and if so, if they're suspecting us of the murder.

Peeta's listening to the radio in the car, and when he comes back, he's furious. His neck is red, and his eyes convey pure rage.

"What's the matter?"

"They're making him out to be a fucking saint! Like he's a martyr, dying for what he believes in," he spits.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it fucking matters! He should be slaughtered by the media for the raping fuck he was."

"He's dead, Peeta. That's all that matters. That's what we wanted."

I get up from the bed to stroke his cheek. It takes a couple of seconds before he turns his head to me, and then a couple more before his face softens. He leans into my touch. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

He doesn't judge me for what I did to Cato—I know he supports me in everything. He's proven that time after time again. It's something else. "Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you?"

He exhales. "I support you in this, Katniss. I really do. I won't rest until every one of those guards are dead, or whatever you want to do to them."

"But?"

"It's… I need to know."

"What?"

"Why ah… I need to know why she..." he drifts off.

He needs to know why she hated him so much. He looks broken. Like it's a weakness to want to know why his mother beat him up on a regular basis.

 _And we both know that there's only one person who might be able to answer that._

"Peeta. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I don't know. I… I haven't… I didn't want to make this about me."

Why can't he see? Why can't he see that this is pointless without him? I wouldn't even be doing this if it weren't for him. If he wants resolution, I'll give everything I can to help him. And I don't know what to say to make him understand it.

So I kiss him. I can't form into words how much I want him to get some form of closure, but I'll do everything in my power to make him get it. It's Peeta I live for. That's all that matters. _He's_ all that matters.

The kiss is slow. Our tongues carefully seek each other out, and I press my hands to his cheeks, bringing him closer to me. I hope he'll understand what I'm trying to tell him. _I love you. I'll always be here for you. Whatever you need._

When we break apart he presses his forehead against mine. "Thank you."

I don't know why he feels the need to thank me, but I don't fight him on it. Instead, I lock my arms around his neck, bringing him close to me.

He kisses the side of my neck. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

* * *

The hob is nowhere near how I imagined it. I'd have thought half-naked women would throw themselves at us, but instead most people keep to themselves.

Only one person, a woman with a ragged leopard suit and a bad dye job, approaches us. She's not sober, but I can't make out what she's been taking.

"Dear!" she pipes up, when she apparently recognizes Peeta. "Where have you been?"

"Had business to attend to," he simply states.

"Can I offer you anything? I know you've never been one for company, but my girls are always a treat." I doubt she even believes that herself. Judging by the looks of this place, most of _her girls_ are junkies, hoping to earn a few bucks to score another fix.

"Actually, I'm thinking of that one." Peeta points to a blonde with her head between her legs—she looks like she's recovering from a hangover, but alcohol didn't make her this way.

"That one? You can have her for free. When she's not 'under the influence,'" she whispers the last part, "she's a nervous wreck. You're lucky if she can manage a decent blowjob." She turns her head to me, then back at Peeta. "If you want a threesome, I'd recommend another one."

"Thank you, but I want that one," Peeta says, ignoring the woman's advice.

"Are you sure I can't tempt you with these, sweet buns?" she asks, opening up the front of her shirt and revealing a pair of saggy boobs. I think she used to be pretty, but drugs and alcohol must have worn her down, and she seems to be completely unaware of it. It's tragic, really.

"As tempting as that looks, I have plans for the blonde." Peeta smiles at her. It's fake, but whatever she's been taking seems to cloud her judgment.

"She's all yours."

We approach the hungover blonde sitting by one of the dumpsters. I kick her foot, getting her attention.

Her eyes are bloodshot, and her skin looks even grayer than it did in prison. Her cheekbones are more prominent, and I wonder how she's managed to stay on the heroin. I can't see how she'd finance it, because she can't be getting many customers. It doesn't look like she recognizes us, because if she did, she wouldn't look annoyed—she'd be scared fucking shitless.

Instead of saying anything, Peeta unceremoniously grabs her arm and drags her away from anyone's sight. Not that they would care what happens, but you can never be too careful. After we've turned into an alley Peeta shoves her into the brick wall. _Now,_ she recognizes us.

"You thought you could get away with it? I fucking helped you. You were _nothing_ before me."

Glimmer doesn't seem to know what to say. Good. There is nothing she _can_ say.

But an uneven clicking sound approaches from the street. "Yoohoo!" It's the older woman from before, and her face drops when she sees the gun in my hand. She's close enough to see it but too far away for us to stop her from screaming and giving us away.

"Fuck," Peeta exclaims. Before I know it he takes the gun from my hand.

Three muffled shots. Three growing red stains on the leopard suit. She's dead before she even hits the ground.

Shoving the gun back into my hands Peeta says close to my ear, "We have to go. Do it now."

This time I don't hesitate.

I shoot Glimmer point blank between the eyes.

There's no time to contemplate what we did. We need to get out of here before someone sees us and calls the cops. From what I'd gathered from Peeta, the death rate in this neighborhood is high, and the police usually don't investigate as deep as they should. That's good news for us, but we still need to get the fuck out of here.

The car is parked not far from here, and we dive into it, me in the driver's seat and Peeta behind me. I turn the ignition and pull out from the alley. I can't get out of here fast enough, wanting to put as much distance between us and those bodies as possible.

"Katniss, slow down. We don't need any attention right now."

I don't understand how he can be so calm after what just happened, but I automatically release the pressure on the gas pedal.

"Sorry."

"It's all right. Turn right here," he instructs.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary, so I guess no one has found the dead bodies yet. But that's just a matter of time. If that older lady was some sort manager, her absence will surely be noticed pretty quickly.

Pulling onto the interstate, I finally let myself relax, but my chest tightens when I look in the rearview mirror. His eyes are cold, focused, and fixated straight ahead. "You had no choice, Peeta. We didn't know what she might have done. Screamed or—"

"I know." His voice is low. Hollow. "She should have left us alone."

I've seen that look before, but not on him. Icy blue eyes, filled with something I can't really describe. Then I see it. He did what he had to do, and he doesn't regret it. He knows he's not to blame.

"Right."

We spend the rest of the ride in silence.

* * *

By now, there's only one left, and he's not getting off the hook as easy as some of the others. He won't get a clean and easy death.

The surveillance on him is low—we mapped it out days ago. They stay with him to and from work, but other than that he's fair game. It's astonishing really, either how small their resources are or how little they care about the men and women who guard the inmates.

As soon as the familiar car drives away we move to the entrance of his house, and as soon as he opens the door I punch him right on the nose.

It doesn't hurt the way it used to. I guess it takes some practice before your knuckles grow accustomed to being pressed into other people's faces. Peeta's not long after, giving him another hit in his face that seem to knock him out.

"Good," I say. "Not so much complaining."

With Cato he needed to know why I killed him. With Hawthorne I don't have to tell him. He knows. That's why he's been protected by the cops. If the shithead guards had had the guts to confess what they've been doing, the police might have prioritized their resources where they were needed, but I'm not surprised they didn't. Piece of shit cowards as they are. And now they're paying the price.

Hawthorne finds himself tied up like Cato and Thread were. Peeta helped me pull him up to a chair and tie him up, but he's letting me do everything else.

"How much longer?" It's stressing, only waiting for him to wake up. Every minute is precious, especially since we can't be completely sure when his surveillance will be back. We've been tracking them for a while, but you never know when they change their routines.

"Don't know. Should be any minute now." Peeta scratches his nose with the back of his hand, the one carrying his gun. I want to tell him how much I love him for doing this for me, how much I love seeing him like this. This side of him, showing no mercy to my—our—enemies. Unyielding. Unrelenting. Strong. Devoted.

I don't know what to say exactly, but a groan from the chair interrupts me, whatever I was going to say.

"Good, you're awake," Peeta says cooly. "We've been waiting for you."

It takes a couple of seconds before Hawthorne gains his bearing, realizing what a predicament he's in. His arms flinch, as if testing the restraints of the duct tape that binds his wrists, ankles, and abdomen. It doesn't budge.

We've left his mouth free. For now.

Peeta's fists clench at his sides, his breath ragged—it's obvious how much he wants to hit the living daylights out of Hawthorne.

I make a mental note to let him have his way with this one before we leave.

I put my newly sharpened knife to his throat. "You won't be a nuisance, will you?"

Realization hits when he recognizes us. He knows what's happened to the other guards. Knows that they've paid with their lives, and he's desperate to make sure he won't end up our tenth victim. Or is it eleventh? Whatever.

Without a word, he only shakes his head slowly.

"Good boy," I say, patting his head for effect.

"Why?" is all he whispers.

" _Why?_ " I repeat. "Why are you such a fucking coward? Why are you such a fucking piece of shit?" I scream in his face. " _You_ tell me! You tell _me_ why!"

I didn't expect to get so riled up about this, but a warm hand—Peeta's—soothes me as I calm down from the rant I just threw Hawthorne. His calm spreads through me as I try to focus on the task at hand. We can't stay here forever, so we need to make the most of it.

"He can't help himself," Peeta says in my ear, loud enough for Hawthorne to hear it too. "Whatever whore pushed him out her cunt must have hated him enough not to care what kind of man he became."

This gets Hawthorne moving, and his arms frantically start shaking, as if the tape is going to break.

Peeta chose his words carefully. Of course we know that he loves his mother more than anything. She's in the hospital. Lung cancer. Hawthorne sends all of his extra money to her, so his love for her is his weakness.

"I'm not afraid of dying." A pathetic claim. As if that will take away our power over him. Of course he's afraid of dying. In the end, everyone is. I've seen it enough times. Peeta's mom. Thread, Cato, Glimmer…

"Keep telling yourself that."

"What do you want? If you wanted me dead you'd have done it by now." He's not a total imbecile, I'll give him that. "I'm not stupid. I know what happened to the others."

"Do you?" Peeta asks without a care in the world.

"They're dead. You killed them. Without giving them a chance to fight."

He's got some fucking nerve.

"Not all of them. Did you see the burn marks on Marvel's leg? Did you see the cuts between Brutus's fingers?" Hawthorne looks at Peeta in disbelief. "No, you didn't, and I doubt they'll be telling you about it if they value their own and their families' lives." Peeta's not lying. We didn't kill all of them.

"The cops will be here any minute."

"No, they won't. We used your tactic." We're not bluffing. It was so easy to pay someone off to set off an alarm in a fancy villa not very far from here, and the cops will be all over that. Rich white people are always prioritized, and we take advantage. Like he used Glimmer to distract me. "She's dead by the way," I continue.

His eyes widen when he realizes that no one is coming to his aid. He's all alone. He's sweating now, small pearls of perspiration covering his forehead. If it's from fear or exhaustion, I can't tell.

Leaning forward, I swipe some of it off. "Are you scared?" I mock.

He doesn't answer. Instead the fucker spits in my face.

I barely have time react before Peeta pushes the chair, tipping it backward, and Hawthorne following with it. There's a cry of pain when the back of the chair hits the floor, and Peeta's all over him, the gun pressed underneath his chin.

"Do you have a deathwish, motherfucker? Do that again and I'll fucking kill you. And it won't be fast."

I quickly dry off my face with the sleeve of my shirt. Putting my hands on Peeta's shoulder, I try to calm him down. I'm pissed too, but we can't lose our temper. Not now. Not when we're so close.

"Peeta. He gets the picture."

He turns his head, looking at me. His breathing is hard, cheeks flushed and jaw clenched. We stand like that for a couple of seconds before Peeta releases Hawthorne. But before he lets go he spits in his face. Without a word he leaves the room.

What the fuck just happened? I've seen him angry before, but it's always been controlled. He's never lost his temper like that. I leave Hawthorne on the floor and follow Peeta into the other room. He's sitting down, his elbows on his knees and his head hanging.

"He's just trying to get a rise out of us," I tell him, sitting down next to him.

"Well, it's working," Peeta grits out.

"We're almost done. Let's finish this, and then we'll leave."

He exhales. "You're right." He takes my hand and kiss the knuckles.

Hawthorne is still on the floor, taped to the chair as we come back to the kitchen, and Peeta quickly pulls him up before taping his mouth too. Taking another chair and straddling it, he stares into Hawthorne's eyes. "Hazelle. Vick. Rory. Posy. What do all of those names mean?" he says calmly.

Hawthorne snaps his head to Peeta, the names getting his attention.

"It means that their lives belong to us and their deaths do too."

That's all we need to tell him. Their names. He already knows we have no qualms about killing, and knowing his family members' names is all we need to convince him that we'll be watching him, and that's the best torture in the world. He knows how easily we can get to people. We broke out of prison and killed several COs without getting caught. His family is an easy target. When his mother finally dies from her illness he's going to wonder if we had any part in it, and that's the sweetest revenge.

"Goodbye, Gale," I say before we're out of his apartment.

I don't care if he ever gets loose from the restraints. He won't be a problem to us either way. He loves his mother and siblings too much to risk it. Pathetic.

We've already loaded the car, so when we leave Hawthorne's apartment we're out of this fucking town.

Even if the cops show up at Hawthorne's apartment he won't say shit. He'll be scared for the rest of his life, and I can't think of a better retaliation.

Peeta takes my hand in his, squeezing it.

We're almost there.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Thank you for reading! If you enjoy this story, please let me know.


	11. Veritas

**Author's note:** My friend papofglencoe does not only beta this story, she's a wonderful human being. Thank you!

* * *

It's been almost a decade, but this place still looks the same. The house doesn't stand out from the rest, and a bypasser wouldn't have any clue about what atrocities went down in there. The 'a' and 'r' on the mailbox have started to fade, but other than that it's like time stood still.

When we walk up the stairs to the porch I remember the day that changed me completely. Peeta's birthday. I'd never hated anyone before that. But looking through that window something changed. I didn't understand it at the time, but after that nothing has ever been the same.

I look up to Peeta standing next to me, and I grab his hand for support. Being here is difficult for me, and I can't even imagine what it's like for him. His eyes are hard—unforgiving. Without hesitation he knocks on the door—three hard, decisive knocks. If he's feeling insecure he sure as hell isn't showing it.

It takes a while, and I start to think there's no one home when there's rustling behind the door. It opens, revealing a man in his fifties. Arian's hair is gray around his temples, and the wrinkles around his eyes reveal a hard life. I don't fucking care.

His eyes go to me first, and I'm struck by the intensity of his stare. He doesn't seem to recognize me, and confusion is written all over his face. But when he looks at Peeta his expression softens. It's shock at first and then disbelief.

I look up to Peeta again, but his glare is just as hard as it was before.

"Hello, Dad."

"Peeta." He raises his hand, probably wanting to touch his son, but Peeta rapidly backs away.

"Don't fucking touch me."

He immediately retracts his hand. "Alright, I won't," he says weakly. He looks Peeta in the eye a couple of seconds but doesn't seem to be able to hold his gaze. Shifting his attention to me, he finally recognizes my face. "Katniss? Are you…? I thought—"

Peeta slams his hand against the doorframe in front of his father's face, effectively blocking me from his field of vision. "She's none of your fucking concern."

"Peeta, what—"

"Aren't you going to invite us in?" Peeta interrupts. It's not a question.

He hesitates. I can understand his reaction to me, but denying his son anything at this point is just provoking. He should be on his knees, begging him for forgiveness. For every time he chose to turn the blind eye when Peeta was being physically and mentally harassed. _Especially_ the last time. He's pressing all of my buttons.

"Pe—" I can't handle him standing there, making himself out to be some sort of victim. Before he has the chance to finish I take out my gun, pointing at him right between the eyes.

"Cut the bullshit." His eyes flit to Peeta, but he gets no sympathy there either.

"We're going to have a little chat," Peeta says before pushing himself past his father. I lower my gun and follow him. The inside of this house has completely changed, a stark contrast from the exterior. All of the furniture has been replaced—the only thing I recognize is the fireplace.

Peeta's dad closes the door and trails after Peeta as he enters the kitchen.

"Sit." He looks at Peeta warily, as if to check that it's really him. This ticks Peeta off, and he exhales loudly, getting in his father's face. "Sit the fuck down." Peeta's got a couple of inches on him, and with his physique he could easily take him down. But the tone of his voice and unforgiving stare are enough.

Arian sits down by the short end of the table, and Peeta and I sit on opposite sides, flanking him.

"I'm going to be honest with you," Peeta says, putting his gun on the table. His dad looks at it carefully, then back to Peeta. He's afraid of saying something to piss him off. Good. "I've never understood the whole thing about blood being thicker than water." He takes up the gun, examining it as if making sure the safety is on. Of course it is. "I don't even like you."

He hits just right, and the hurt in his dad's eyes is obvious, but Peeta doesn't flinch.

"So why are you here, then?" Arian asks carefully.

"You know. Hate I can understand," Peeta says, still examining the gun. "She hated me—I can live with that. I hated her too. But do you know what I find worse than hate?" He pauses before continuing. Putting the weapon on the table he finally gives his father the attention he's been craving since we came here. "Indifference."

Arian looks unsure, uncertain of where Peeta's going with this. He should have known the moment he laid his eyes on him.

"You didn't hate me—you just didn't care."

"What do you want, Peeta?" Arian looks down at his lap, seemingly unable to look his son in the eyes. Is he ashamed? I fucking hope so.

"It's a really simple question. Why? That's all it comes down to. Why, Dad?" Peeta's eyes are glistening from unshed tears, but he blinks them away before they spill over. "I spent all my life trying to please you. Nothing was ever good enough for her, and you didn't even care that I tried." He stands up and leans over his father's face, forcing him to look at him. "Tell me what the fuck I did to make my mother hate me and for my father to let her."

"You don't under—"

Peeta slams his fist on the table, silencing his father. "No, I don't. But you're going to explain it to me."

His eyes flit to mine, as if hoping to get some understanding from me. He doesn't. Whatever Peeta decides to do, I will support him.

"Why is she here? She killed your—"

"I'm here because I was the only one who cared about your son."

"What's it gonna be? I've got a lot of bullets, but I think I'll only need one. What do you think?" Peeta taunts.

"Probably," he whispers, fear seeping from his voice. He's realizing what kind of man Peeta's become, and it terrifies him. "It's complicated."

 _It's complicated._ _You don't understand._ He's stalling, and Peeta sees right through it. He takes the gun in his hand, looking his father in the eyes as he cocks it and aims it at him. Slowly. He doesn't waver one bit. "What did I do to deserve it?"

Arian mumbles something barely audible. A cold wave rushes through me because I heard, but Peeta didn't.

"What?"

Arian's eyes no longer show fear. It's determination. Or anger?

"You were born!" he erupts. "You ruined everything. Go ahead. Shoot your father. Prove me right. Prove to me that you destroy everything you touch, including your mother."

Peeta puts the safety back on the gun before hitting his father in the face with it. There's a streak of blood on his cheek from where the gun hit. Peeta is about to take another swing, but I put my hand on his arm. "Peeta. Hear him out first." I have no concern about his father's well-being. I just want to get what we came for.

He takes a breath to calm himself before addressing his father again. "You've got a lot of fucking nerve. Now, my anatomy might be a little rusty, but last time I checked, for a child to be born two people need to fuck."

"You never wondered why you never had any siblings?"

"Guess I was too busy getting my ass kicked by my mother to give it any thought."

"When you came out you made damned sure she could never have children again."

"That's the lamest fucking excuse I've ever heard. She blamed Peeta for not being able to have more than one child? She should've cherished him, knowing he'd be the only one."

"She did."

Peeta snorts. "No, she didn't."

"You're too young to remember. But the knowledge of not being able to have more children put a strain our marriage."

"Save me the sob story."

"You wanted the truth. I wanted to split up, but she didn't. She threatened to sue me for assault if I filed for divorce. Once, she hit you to show me how determined she was. Said that she'd use it in court as proof of my violent tendencies. I guess she took a liking to it."

She _took a liking_ to beating her only child? And he sits there, talking about it like it's the fucking weather. If it were up to me I'd kill him on the spot. "And you? Where the fuck were you?"

"I tried to build myself a normal life, but it's difficult with a crazy wife, and the cause of it living right under your nose."

"Well, I hope you managed to find a new life for yourself while your son was fighting for _his_ ," Peeta says dryly.

Silence.

"You're going to kill me now? Now that you got what you came for?"

"We're not done."

"I told you everything. What else do you want?"

"There's this thing that's been bugging me for a while," Peeta says, scratching his temple with the barrel of the gun. "The day I was committed to the hospital someone called 911. I'm pretty sure it wasn't Mom, and it sure as hell wasn't me. That leaves you."

He nods in my direction. "How do you know it wasn't her?"

"Already asked."

"And you believe her?"

"Yes," he answers without hesitation. "Now. You were here. Tell me what happened."

"I don't know what happened. I got here, and she was freaking out. She begged me not to call the police. I called for an ambulance and told her I wouldn't call the cops if she left town. For good."

"You had a golden opportunity to make a change. Get revenge for everything she put Peeta through. And you chose not to. You're a piece of shit."

"And you have the moral high ground here?"

I don't have time to respond before the front door opens. Neither of us has time to react before a blonde woman appears in opening.

"Oh, I didn't know you had—" She stops herself when she sees the guns on the table. She's trying to make sense of what's happening, but I'm out of my chair before she can think. My hand over her mouth prevents her from screaming.

"Sit down, and don't say a word." I take her purse, looking for an ID. Her driver's license says that she's about a year younger than Peeta and me, but it's her name that catches my attention. "Peeta?"

I hand him the ID, and his eyes go wide in realization. The woman sits down in the chair I'd been sitting in, so I take the seat next to her. Peeta puts the card on the table before speaking. "Tell me, Delly _Cartwright_ ," he emphasizes her last name. "Why are you sharing a last name with this man over here?"

"He's… He's my father," she stutters, confused.

It didn't take long time after Peeta was born until he found another woman to fuck and impregnate. Delly looks frightened, having no idea what's going on.

"Do you have any siblings, Delly?"

"Peeta—"

"Shut the fuck up. You've done enough talking. Let the lady speak."

"N… No, I don't. Why? What does it have to do with anything?"

Peeta shoots his father a look. At least he has the decency to look ashamed. Whether it has to do with Peeta or Delly is impossible to tell.

"You sure about that? We have the same eyes, same hair..."

"I don't know you."

"And who's fault is that?" He turns to his father. " _Dad._ " Realization dawns on Delly's face when Peeta's father doesn't argue. "Are you gonna blame this on Mom too? Or are you gonna grow a pair and take some fucking responsibility?"

"I know you," Delly says carefully, her attention on me. "I've seen you on TV. You're the one who..." She doesn't finish the sentence. She looks like she's about to scream when she realizes who we are. I'm about to take out a cloth to gag her, but she's fast and I don't expect it. She manages to get behind me, pressing a small pocket knife to my throat. It's dull, but it can still do a lot of damage.

Peeta immediately points his gun at her, but she uses me as a shield. The knife trembles against my throat, and I don't want to make any sudden moves. I'd never thought she might have any weapons, and now I'm paying the price. I try to catch Peeta's eye, asking for forgiveness, but his gaze is trained on Delly.

"You don't want to test my marksmanship, Delly." He's right—he's an excellent shot, especially close-range. "If you try anything, there will be at least two bodies here, and I won't have any qualms about it."

She's sniveling behind me—she's in way over her head. "Please just leave."

"That's the plan, but you decide whether or not you'll be alive when we do."

"Dad, leave," she cries.

Peeta's nervous—I can see it in his eyes. This situation's gotten way out of hand, but his hands are still steady.

"No, he stays. I don't know you, Delly, so I don't know what you're capable of. So if I think for one second you're about to hurt her, I will shoot you on the spot." He never breaks eye contact with her. "Let her go," he says calmly.

The pressure against my throat lessens, and she lowers her hand. As soon as she releases me I swiftly move away from her, grabbing my gun in the process.

"You've got guts, Delly. In another universe I think we could have been friends. We're gonna leave now, but neither of you are gonna call the police. I didn't work at three maximum security prisons without making some friends." He looks at Delly. "Whether or not you want to forgive him is your choice. But if I learned anything from this man it's that he's a pretty good liar. It's up to you if choose to believe whatever lies he'll tell you after we've left." He pauses. "But if you want some brotherly advice I'd put that knife of yours to good use."

With that, Peeta takes my hand, and we walk out of there. Neither Delly nor Peeta's dad will call the police—I saw the fear in both of their eyes.

Getting in the car, I take Peeta's hand over the console, giving it a light squeeze. At that, he looks at me. He maybe didn't like the answers he got, but he got them nonetheless, and that seems to be good enough for him.

He doesn't smile, but I didn't expect him to. Instead he looks straight ahead, focusing on the road in front of us.

We're leaving.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Only one chapter to go. If you enjoy this story, please drop me a line. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr.


	12. Ad Astra

**Author's note:** My friend papofglencoe is the one who gave me the push I needed start (and keep) writing this so if you've been enjoying Lex, you should be thanking her too. Because I do. I love you, girl!

* * *

The cold air makes my skin break out in goosebumps, so I pull the blanket over my shoulders. It's that time of the year when the nights are just cold enough to need a coat outside. But I like sitting on the porch like this, with almost nothing but the forest to keep me company.

I'm by myself, and while waiting for Peeta to come home I look through his sketchbook. At first I'd thought it was too personal, but he doesn't mind me looking through his drawings. His mother destroyed all of his sketches when she was alive, and he didn't pick up drawing until about a year after we were out of prison. So all of these pictures are no more than a couple of years old. There's the look of Cashmere's face when she realized she'd been played, the red stains on the leopard suit, me slitting Thread's throat. In some way he'd manage to make me look beautiful doing it. I wasn't beautiful. I was angry. Hurt. Ruthless. _Free._

The sound of the car breaks me from my little trip down memory lane. It took me years before the sound of a car didn't completely freak me out, but now I've learned to deal with it, and I know it's Peeta when I see the headlights through the trees. The left one is slightly dimmer than the other.

We've moved so far away that the risk of recognition is slim to none, but we both always wear some sort of disguise when going to a public place. Peeta usually wears a brown wig and glasses. He says he could just dye it, but I prefer his blonde locks. The glasses on the other hand… are hot.

He takes out the bags from the car and walks up to the porch.

"Hey. You need help?"

"Nah, it's fine. Let me just put this in and I'll join you."

"Okay."

He disappears through the door, but it's only seconds before his head pops out. "Don't you ever get tired of looking at those?" he asks, referring to his drawings in my lap.

"Nope," I say with a grin that he mirrors.

A couple of minutes later he comes back out, carrying a bottle of scotch and two glasses. It's the same one his mother preferred. A shrink would probably have a field day with that.

Sitting down, he laces his fingers through mine. With his other hand he pours the alcohol in the glasses and offers one to me. We both take a sip, relishing the burn in silence.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he says abruptly, getting up from the chair. He doesn't offer any explanation as he half-runs to the car and takes out some sort of magazine. "We made the paper."

"Uhm, what?"

"Look," he says, giving it to me. It's a monthly magazine that specializes in crime and law enforcement. And he's right. There we are—on the cover. It's my mugshot, and the photo from his identification card as a CO. The title says _Captivating romance._

"Clever."

"I haven't read it yet."

I flip it open and scan through the pages until I find the story.

 _The anniversary of one of the most spectacular prison breakouts in modern history is coming up. Five years ago, inmate Katniss Everdeen and correctional officer Peeta Mellark brutally murdered a guard and the warden of Aurum Correctional Facility. Everdeen was serving a sentence for manslaughter and Mellark had recently been transferred to the facility._

 _At first, the crime made no sense, but when it was discovered that Mellark had a different last name eight years prior, the pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. The woman Everdeen had shot and killed was, in fact, Mellark's mother._

 _Everdeen and Mellark had a romantic relationship in high school, and the murder took place less than a year after their graduation. There were no witnesses, and with Everdeen pleading the fifth, a first-degree murder conviction seemed far-fetched for the prosecution. Instead, a plea bargain for manslaughter was struck. The motive remained a mystery until news articles about Mellark's alleged abusive upbringing began to pop up. According to several sources within the school Mellark was physically abused during his childhood and adolescence. Whether this was the reason for Everdeen's sudden act of violence remains unclear, but the police consider it highly plausible._

 _After the sentencing Mellark stayed out of the public eye, and directly after changing his name he began his training as a correctional officer. Although there are no records of him contacting Everdeen in prison until he was transferred there, it was only a couple of months before the breakout._

 _Mellark had never shown any violent tendencies, and, apart from the crime for which Everdeen was convicted, neither had she. But it only took weeks outside the prison walls before the couple gave into their true selves._

 _Guards and staff affiliated with the prison started dropping dead. Executed. Based on the ballistic reports, the guns used were the same ones that were reported missing after the breakout, leaving Everdeen and Mellark as the only suspects._

 _Since the couple seemed to target correctional officers, the police took measures in an attempt to protect the rest of the prison staff. But due to limited resources, protecting everyone around the clock became an impossibility, and the murderous couple took advantage._

 _Zach Cato was the first victim outside the prison walls. His now eight-year-old son barely remembers his father, keeping to himself when we spoke to his mother, Cato's former girlfriend who wishes to remain anonymous. They were not together at the time of his murder._

" _I just don't understand why. I know Zach was no angel, but he didn't deserve this. He was a responsible father, and now I've been forced to raise our son all alone."_

 _She says she's had a lot of help from friends and parents, but it's not the same as having the father of her child around. "He was trying to change his shifts so he'd be able to spend more time with us."_

 _The wounds left by Cato's murder continue to haunt the small family, as is visible by how close she is to tears during the entire interview. Her life has been hard in the wake of Cato's untimely death, and every day is still a struggle._

" _I just don't know what to tell my son. He's old enough to ask questions about where his dad is. What am I supposed to say? How do I even begin to explain something I don't even understand myself?"_

And so it goes on. More interviews with surviving family and friends of almost every CO who thought they had a right to my body. Every story is supposed to be more heartbreaking than the next. I guess it's meant to evoke some kind of emotion in the reader. It doesn't. Day by day, those guards broke down whatever compassion I could have felt for them. For every rape, every hit, every subtle grab, my potential pity toward them disintegrated into nothing. I feel nothing.

I skip to the last paragraph.

 _What caused the formerly lovable couple to turn into cold-blooded killers? According to numerous psychologists it's impossible to tell what motivated Everdeen and Mellark. And, as their latest known crime dates back to almost five years ago, the possibility of that happening gets slimmer, their trail getting colder by the day._

 _It's possible that Mellark's abusive childhood could make him more prone to violence. "Feelings like that can simmer for a long time without manifesting until he's triggered."_

" _What could those triggers be?"_

" _It could've been his mother's death, finding out that it was his girlfriend who did it. Or something else."_

" _What about Everdeen? What drove her?"_

" _I think she was thinking of herself as protecting a loved one. And then being punished for it would make her blame the legal system. Combined with Mellark's troubled background they took everything out on the system. And correctional officers became the faces of that system, and that could have been why they were targeted. Putting Mellark in in the same place as Everdeen was a recipe for disaster."_

I hand the magazine over to Peeta to let him read it too. He snorts a couple of times as I continue to skim through his sketchbook.

Flipping through the sheets I notice one that seems out of place. The material of the paper feels different. I pull it out but don't recognize it. It's obviously drawn by Peeta's skillful hand, but this is a piece I haven't seen before. It's of me in profile, lying in the grass and looking up to the sky. But that's not what catches my eye. It's the date at the bottom right corner. He drew this before I got out of prison.

"Hey, I haven't seen this before," I say, handing him the piece of paper.

He inspects the drawing and lets out a breath before handing it back. "Remember when I asked you what you missed the most?"

"Yeah."

"I promised I'd take you to the stars."

 _And he did._

His love for me is so unreal I sometimes have a hard time convincing myself that it's true. I don't know how to respond with words.

Instead, I get up from my chair and curl up in his lap. Steady arms surround me and hold me in place, my knees pushed to my chest, my head against his shoulder. Pulling up the blanket, he tucks us both in. He kisses my hair and I trace my fingers along his collarbone, feeling the ridges and small bumps there. Reminders of a life when waking up every morning was a disappointment. My scars are not as visible, but he never forgets. He's the only one I've ever been able to trust, and he feels the same way about me. He shows me every day.

Kissing the side of his neck, his slow pulse beats against my lips. Taking his chin in my hand, I nudge him to look at me. We've been through so much, both together and apart, and neither of us will ever be what we were before.

Gone are the soft features I remember from when we were kids. Gone is the caring and kind ocean-colored look in his eyes.

They're not warm anymore.

They're icy blue.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Lex Talionis – the principle that a person who has injured another person is to be penalized to a similar degree. (Wikipedia)

If you're wondering about the chapter titles, the translations can be found somewhere in respective chapters.

So this has been an interesting experiment. I wanted to see if I could write and sympathize with characters that do horrible things. I wanted to challenge the idea that right and wrong are universal. Is an action wrong solely based the act itself or is it the reasoning behind it? Or is it both? We all have different opinions but this is story is an attempt to sort out my own thoughts on the topic.

I would also like to take this moment to say that this will, most likely, be my last multi-chapter story in this fandom. In light of recent events of people disrespecting authors in different ways I just don't really have the inspiration to contribute anymore. You might be seeing drabbles from time to time but, at the moment, my heart's just not in it anymore.


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